A  BOOK 

OF 

VASSAR  VERSE 


REPRINTS  FROM 

THE  VASSAR  MISCELLANY  MONTHLY 
1894-1916 


PUBLISHED  BY 

THE  VASSAR  MISCELLANY  MONTHLY 
1916 


mv.  library.  UC  Santo  uui 


Copyright  1916 

by 
The  Vassar  Miscellany  Monthly 


Press  of 

The  A.  V.  Haight  Company 
Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y. 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 

Page 

A  Waltz  by  Chopin E.  H.  Haight,  1894  I! 

The  Mad  Poet Nancy  Vincent  McClelland,  1897  12 

Before  the  Dawn M.  R.,  1897  16 

Night  Wind Fanny  Hart,  1898  17 

Where  the  Dead  Past  Sits  Enthroned 

Emma  Lou  Garrett,  1899  18 

Sunset . 1901  20 

Loneliness Adelaide  Crapsey,  1901  21 

With  the  Passing  of  the  Sun Emma  Lou  Garrett,  1 899  22 

A  Fragment ...Evelina  Pierce,  1902  23 

Dutch  Tulips Mary  Atwater  Mason,  1902  25 

November fcLetitia  Jean  Smythe,  1901  26 

Spring  Song Mary  Fleming,  1902  28 

Through  Winter  Woods....Margaret  Adelaide  Pollard,  1902  29 

The  Seer Mary  Burt  Messer,       S  30 

White  Wings Elsie  Mitchell  Rushmore,  1906  31 

Song  of  An  Irish  Mother Olive  Stewart,  1908  33 

Elemental Eliza  Adelaide  Draper,  1907  34 

The  Chorus Louise  Medbery,  1907  35 

A  Pagan Beatrice  Dorr,  1909  36 

On  the  Coast  of  Maine Louisa  Brooke,  1907  38 

To-Night  Life's  Web  Seemed  Twisted  All  Awry 

Dorothea  Gay,  1911  42 

Where  the  Waves  Meet  the  Shore.. Katharine  Taylor,  1910  43 

Christmas Sarah  Hincks,  1910  44 

Fluctuation Hazel  Bishop  Poole,  1909  45 

The  Sea  Shore Ruth  Elizabeth  Presley,  1909  46 

In  the  Hospital Ruth  Elizabeth  Presley,  1909  47 

Summer  Winds Margaret  Adams  Hobbs,  1910  48 

Flitter  Moth Genevieve  J.  Williams,  191 1  49 

Morning  on  the  River Helen  Lathrop,  191 1  50 

The  Poet's  Mistress  Sings .Genevieve  J.  Williams,  1911  51 

Exile Marion  Eleanor  Crampton,  191 1  53 

The  Knot-Hole ^Margaret  Frances  Culkin,  1912  54 

Saxon  Lullaby Dorothea  Gay,  191 1  56 

Afterwards Genevieve  J.  Williams,  191 1  58 

Queen's  Lace Frances  Shriver,  191 1  59 

From  the  Dusk ......Elizabeth  Toof,  1913  60 

3 


Page 

Pierrette Helen  Clark,  1913  61 

The  Wind  Song Henriette  de  Saussure  Blanding,  1912  62 

After  the  Season Helen  Dorothea  Romer,  1912  65 

Sleep  Song  of  the  Pines Elizabeth  Toof,  1913  67 

Tristram Elizabeth  Mason  Heath,  1916  68 

Alyth Elizabeth  Toof,  1913  69 

Winds  and  the  Lilies Helen  Lombaert  Scobey ,  1913  70 

From  Homer Rebecca  Park  Lawrence,  1913  71 

A  Prayer  to  Buddha Elizabeth  Toof,  1913  73 

The  Abbey  Bells  of  Middleburg 

Helen  Lombaert  Scobey,  1913  74 

To  a  Stranger Ruth  Thomas  Pickering,  1914  76 

Love  Song Ruth  Thomas  Pickering,  1914  77 

0,  I  Went  Down  to  the  River  Bank 

Ruth  Thomas  Pickering,  1914  78 

Evening Carolyn  Crosby  Wilson,  1917  79 

Persephone  to  Orpheus Elizabeth  Mason  Heath,  1916  80 

Interim Edna  St.  Vincent  Millay,  1917  81 

Swing  in  the  Swing Vivian  Gurney,  1915  95 

The  Apprentice Elizabeth  Jane  Coatsworth,  1915  96 

Chanson Katharine  Schermerhorn  Oliver,  1915  98 

The  Dragon  Lamp Louise  Hunting  Seaman,  1915  99 

London  Chimney  Pots Vivian  Gurney,  1915  101 

Man  Mending  a  Pipe Elizabeth  Mason  Heath,  1916  1 02 

Love  Song Carolyn  Crosby  Wilson,  1917  104 

Circe Elizabeth  Jane  Coatsworth,  1915  105 

The  Lover Elizabeth  Jane  Coatsworth,  1915 

Katharine  Schermerhorn  Oliver,  1915  1 06 

Rebellion Elizabeth  Jane  Coatsworth,  1915  108 

Cathleen  Ni  Houlihan Miriam  S.  Wright,  1918  110 

The  Defiance  of  Lilith Elizabeth  Jane  Coatsworth,  1916  111 

Autumn Carolyn  Crosby  Wilson,  1917  113 

The  Dreamer ElsieLanier,  1918  115 

Horace  C.  I.  29 Agnes  Rogers,  1916  116 

Prologue  (From  the  Pageant  of  Athena) 117 

Alta  Mater Elizabeth  Mason  Heath,  1916  119 

Dawn .....Carolyn  Crosby  Wilson,  1917  120 

The  Sandman Helen  Johnson,  1918  121 

The  Fairy  Ring Elizabeth  Keller,  1916  122 

Alone . ...Charlotte  Vande  Water,  1917  123 

Road  Song Elizabeth  Mason  Heath,  1916  124 

Confidante Carolyn  Crosby  Wilson,  1917  125 

The  Suicide Edna  St.  Vincent  Millay,  1917  126 

An  Etching Elsie  Lanier,  1918  136 

4 


Page 

Attainment Carolyn  Crosby  Wilson,  1917  137 

Wind  Rhythm....                ....Elizabeth  Mary  Hincks,  1917  139 

Unseen....                                           .... Bee  W.  Hasler,  1917  140 

Mid-Winter Carolyn  Crosby  Wilson,  1917  142 

AT  RANDOM 

Dress  A  la  Carte...  147 

Nothing  At  All....                              ...  F.  L.  McK.,  1898  148 

Lament K.  T.,  1910  150 

Irony 151 

The  Leading  Man ...  I.  U.,  1910  152 

My  Soul R.  P.  L.,  1913  153 

Sonnet  to  a  Hair  Pin M.  M.,  1915  154 

A  Psychological  Disillusion H.  E.  B.,  1917  156 

The  Ballad  of  Bad  'Boccy C.  C.  W.,  1917  158 

Piscis  Vassariae C.  C.  W.,  1917  160 

Fluncture C.  C.  W.,  1917  161 

The  Old  Order  Changeth C.  C.  W.,  1917  162 

Why  Did  I  Ever  Come  to  This  Place?....E.  St.  V.  M.,  1917  153 

Partiality....                                                 ....M.  A.  P.,  1905  167 

Humanity....                                                 ....L.  B.,  1907  169 

Humility....                                           ...E.B.D.,  1909  169 

Bug  of  June....                                        ....V.  L.B.,  1911  170 

A  Valentine ....M.  H.,  1912  171 

The  Centipede ...  E.  K.,  1916  172 

Spring  Song C.  C.  W.,  1917  174 


PREFACE 

In  the  selection  of  the  verse  in  this  vol- 
ume, the  editors  had  a  twofold  purpose: 
first  and  foremost  to  preserve  verse  of 
the  highest  possible  standard  of  excellence; 
and  secondly,  to  show  through  the  collec- 
tion the  development  of  verse-making  in 
the  college  since  1 893,  when  a  similar  an- 
thology was  published.  The  poems  have 
been  arranged  in  chronological  order,  with 
reference  to  their  appearance  in  The  Mis- 
cellany, in  order  to  make  more  evident  the 
changing  influences  which  have  acted  upon 
their  authors,  and  the  broadening  scope  of 
their  themes.  The  book  cannot  fail  to 
have  a  certain  significance  of  symbolism, 
for  in  the  lyric  expression  of  the  writers  is 
apparent  the  widening  range  of  the  college 
girl's  emotional  and  intellectual  interest 
and  the  quickening  of  her  contact  with 
reality,  as  well  as  her  increased  power  of 
expression. 


In  a  measure  the  editors  have  sacrificed 
the  historical  to  the  aesthetic.  Propor- 
tionately, recent  poetry  is  more  completely 
represented  than  that  of  the  older  mag- 
azines because  it  seems  superior  in  variety 
and  in  finish,  Because  of  this  lack  of 
proportion,  the  reader  may  not  sense  as 
keenly  as  did  the  compilers  the  contrast 
between  the  masses  of  conventional  nature 
poetry  and  lullabies  of  the  older  school, 
and  the  varied  richness  of  subject  in 
the  more  modern  songs,  He  may,  how- 
ever, watch  imitation  give  way  to  in- 
terpretation, and  thought  and  imagery 
deepen  under  the  increasing  grace  of  form. 
And  he  may  trace  to  the  end  the  spirit 
of  courageous  experiment,  the  reaching 
forth  of  young  hands  to  new  materials  to 
be  shaped  into  new  forms. 

The  editors  make  no  apology  for  in- 
cluding nonsense  verse  at  the  end  of 
the  volume,  because  it  represents  a  defi- 
nite phase  of  student  life.  To  understand 
the  life  of  a  college  without  understanding 
the  whimsies  of  its  citizens  is  impossible. 


The  critic  who  condemns  us  for  a  sacrifice 
of  dignity  condemns  the  truthfulness  of 
our  volume.  And  he  condemns  some- 
thing more — he  condemns  the  spirit  which 
says,  "We  have  worked  for  a  purpose, 
we  have  loved  our  work,  and  we  have 
smiled." 

Editors  of  the  Vassar  Miscellany  Monthly  1916-1917. 


A  WALTZ  BY  CHOPIN 

Far,  far  away 
We  float  upon  a  melody  of  sound; 

Blue  sky  above  us,  golden  light  around, 
And  all  the  world  one  dreamy  summer 
day. 

Far,  far  away 
A  bird's  soft  note  breaks  o'er  the  water, 

clear, 
The  answering  song  reveals  his  mate 

is  near, 

And  then  they  join  in  warbling  on  their 
way. 

Far,  far  away, 

Soft,  softer  grows  the  tender,  dual  strain, 
One  last,  faint  note  responsive  comes 

again, 
Then  silence  falls.     Breathless   we  wait 

in  pain, 

But  music,  birds  and  spell  have  gone 
their  way, 

Far,  far  away. 

£.  H.  Haight,  1894. 


THE  MAD  POET 

Mad,  quite  mad,  they  tell  you?  Ah,  poor 

fools! 
They  little  know  of   what  they   speak. 

For  see, 

As  no  two  sunsets  ever  were  alike 
Into  whose  gold  the  evening  world  was 

dripped, 
As  no  two  blossoms  ever  bloomed  the 

same 
Though  grown  so  close  that  one  the  other 

touched, 
So  no  two  men.     Go  tell  those  prating 

fools 

The   divine   difference   is   but   more   in- 
creased 
Between  themselves  and  me,   and  thus 

content 
Their  minds.  ************ 

If  one  of  them  had  ever  felt  the  touch 
'Neath  which  my  soul  has  quivered  since 
its  birth, 

12 


He  would  not  call  me  mad.     That  yearn- 
ing love 
Which  is  the  poet's  food  found  place  in 

me; 

And  seized  on  all  my  little  world  contained 
To  sate  itself.     With  Nature's  smile 
I  smiled,  and  at  her  tears  I  wept.     And 

then 
The  love  I  bore  all  things  was  gathered 

in 

And  centered  on  one  being.  Seemingly 
It  greater  grew  in  its  intensity, 
And,  looking  in  her  eyes,  I  felt  my  heart 
Swell  with  a  passion  hitherto  unknown, 
Swell  until  nigh  to  breaking,  so  that  grief 
Stood  next  to  joyfulness  within  my  love. 

Once,  as  we  played,  I  drew  a  flower  across 
Her  smiling  lips  and  flower-like  face,  and 

thought 

The  while,  her  lids  were  lovelier  far 
Than  those  down-drooping  petals  of  the 

bloom; 

And  thereon  cast  the  fragile  thing  aside, 
And  smiled  to  think  how  long  that  fairer 

flower 

13 


Would  stay  to  cheer  me,  sent  to  brush 
away 

The  blossom's  gold  that  clung  upon  her 
cheeks 

With  burning  kisses.  Each  time  when 
my  lips 

Touched  her  dear  face  our  souls  seemed 
made  as  one 

And  mingled  in  a  flood  of  ecstasy! 

Again  I  kissed,  and  held  the  face  away 

'Twixt  both  my  hands,  to  view  with 
ravished  eyes 

The  blushes  that  I  knew  o'erspread  it. 
Fiend! 

What  loathsome  object  met  my  madden- 
ed gaze! 

A  face  indeed — that  self-same  face  de- 
formed 

By   awful   brands.   ********** 

Oh   Heavens!     Every  kiss  had   made  a 

scar! 

Her  eyes  alone  were  radiant  as  before, 
But  burned  into  my  soul.     Look!     See 

them  there — 

14 


There   in   that  corner — here   before   my 

face! 
Nothing  but  eyes,  eyes,  eyes — they  pierce 

my  flesh — 
They  scorch  my  heart  out!     Yes,   they 

want  my  soul 
To  drag  it  down  to  Hell — 0  endless  life 

Of  torture!  Savage,  ceaseless  misery! 
************** 

And  so  men  call  me  mad? 

Nancy  Vincent  McClelland,  1897. 


15 


BEFORE  THE  DAWN 

Before  the  dawn,  when  all  the  world's 

asleep, 

And  even  little  brooks  forget  to  sing, 
The  mother  moon  her  faithful  watch  must 

keep 

O'er  all  the  stars.  Her  task  it  is  to  bring 
Her  pretty  children  to  their  slumbering. 
She  lays  aside  her  own  bright,  golden 

veil, 

Then  draws  upon  each  shining  baby  head 
A  little  night-cap,  soft  and  very  pale. 
Soon  all  the  sky  is  dark,  untenanted 
Before  the  dawn  the  star-babes  go  to  bed. 

M.  R..  1897. 


16 


NIGHT-WIND 

I  called  to   the  Night-wind,  the  Night- 
wind  sang  "No", 
Tossing  the  elms  and  the  willows; 
Then  clasping  the  stars  to  her  breast  she 

swept  low 
In  her  storm-flowing  hair  on  the  billows. 

I   called  to  the  Night-wind,  the  Night- 
wind  sighed  "Yes", 

Mountain-tops  golden  were  gleaming, 
Then  I  gathered  her  hair  to  me,  tress  by 

tress, 

The  stars  drooped,  her  eyes  were  dream- 
ing. 

Fanny  Hart,  1898. 


17 


WHERE  THE  DEAD  PAST  SITS 
ENTHRONED 

Dark  are  the  shadows,  dark  the  walls  of 

stone 

That  close  about  her;  silence  over  all. 
The  dim  light  shows  her  regal  figure,  tall 
And  stately,  seated  on  an  ancient  throne. 
White-faced   she  is,   and   dead,   and  all 

alone. 
A  withered  palm  her  nerveless  hands  let 

fall, 
And  white  against  the  blackness  of  the 

wall 

Shines  out  her  hair,  with  cobwebs  over- 
grown. 
Wide  are  her  eyes  and  straining  through 

the  gloom 
Far  searching  always,  but  the  rocks  that 

loom 
Throughout  the  void  let  never  pilgrim 

nigh, 
Nor  voice  e'er  break  the  silence  of  that 

tomb, 

18 


But  now  and  then  the  dead  thing  throned 

on  high 
Sends  through  the  darkness  one  great, 

shuddering  cry. 

Emma  Lou  Carreti,  1899. 


19 


SUNSET 

Now  dark-eyed  evening  softly  steals  be- 
hind 

And  hides  the  eyes  of  day  with  her  cool 
hands, 

While  lights  and  shadows  play  o'er  mead- 
ow lands 

And  up  the  hills,  at  sportive  hood-man- 
blind. 

"Guess  who  am  I?"  with  voice  of  mur- 
muring wind 

She  softly  asks.  He  falters,  "Art  thou 
night?" 

With  loving  smiles  she  doth  his  eyes  un- 
bind, 

Herself  revealing.     He,  in  passion  bright, 

Flames  to  an  esctasy  of  rapturous  delight. 

1901. 


20 


LONELINESS 

The  earth's  all  wrapped  in  gray  shroud- 
mist, 

Dull  gray  are  sea  and  sky, 
And  where  the  water  laps  the  land 

On  gray  sand-dunes  stand  I. 
Oh,  if  God  there  be,  his  face  from  me 

The  rolling  gray  mists  hide; 
And  if  God  there  be,  his  voice  from  me 

Is  kept  by  the  moan  of  the  tide. 

Adelaide  Crapsey.  1901. 


21 


WITH  THE  PASSING  OF  THE  SUN 

Dead  is  the  sun  king  on  his  royal  couch 
Of  gold  and  purple;  and  the  night  monks 

come 

And  silently  creep  near  it,  one  by  one, 
And,    sombre-robed,    uplift    their    taper 

stars. 
And  in  the  darkness  chant  a  requiem. 

Emma  Lou  Carrett,  1899. 


22 


A  FRAGMENT 

(Supposed  continuation  of  line  277,  Book  V,  Odyssey) 

And  Calypso,  fair  among  nymphs,  lovely 

with  grace  of  goddess, 
Stood  on  the  sands  of  the  sea-beach  and 

gazed  far  out  on  the  ocean. 
There  on  the  dark-colored  sea,  like  a  bird 

on  the  high-vaulted  heaven, 
Sped  the  great  barge  of  Odysseus,  tossed 

by  the  surge  of  the  waters. 
Smaller  and  smaller  it  grew,  till  at  last 

she  could  see  it  no  longer. 
There  sat  she  down  and  wept,  mournful 

she  was,  and  despairing; 
Slowly  the  stars  came  out  like  torches 

proclaiming  the  night-fall, 
Shining  till  dimmed  by  Aurora,  they  sank 

to  their  bath  in  the  billows. 


23 


But  Calypso,  fair  among  nymphs,  sat 
on  the  sands  of  the  sea-beach, 

Weeping  and  hiding  her  face  from  the  sight 
of  the  pitiless  ocean. 

Evelina  Fierce,  1902. 


24 


DUTCH  TULIPS 

Acres  of  glowing  color 

Stretching  from  dyke  to  stream, 

Lifting  their  blazing  torches 

Bright  as  a  fleeting  dream; 

Like  a  flush  of  rose  on  the  meadows, 

Or  a  blot  of  blood-red  wine, 

Or  a  flaming  field  of  cloth-of-gold, 

Is  Holland,  in  tulip  time! 

Mary  Alwatcr  Mason,  1902. 


25 


NOVEMBER 

Quiet,   at  peace,   in  silent  strength  she 

stands, 
The  dull   wind   blowing  on  her  rugged 

face, 
Roughing  her  heavy  hair;  with  sombre 

grace 
Tall,  leafless  branches  sway  in  her  strong 

hands ; 
The  rude  burrs  catch  her  dress,  and  thorny 

vines 
Touched  with  the  last  deep  color  of  the 

year 
Cling  to  its  hem,  faded  and  frayed  and 

sear, 
Fringing    the    coarse,    dusk    folds    with 

fragile  spines. 

A  look  far-seeing  fills  her  wide,  deep  eyes, 
And  the  still  light  of  long,  gray  after- 
noon. 

26 


Bravely  she  waits  the  future,   asks   no 

boon, 
Hers  the  year's  precious  past,  its  golden 

memories. 

Letitia  Jean  Smyth.  1901. 


27 


SPRING  SONG 

The  glad,  mad  hills 

All  veined  with  rills, 

Are  glowing  a  glory 

Of  infinite  green, 

And  a  lyric  laughter  flashes  round 

With  the  onyx-emerald  sheen. 

To  the  birch  foam  toss, 
To  the  throb  of  the  glade, 
To  the  pulse  of  the  wheat, 
To  the  surge  of  the  blade, 
To  the  beat  of  the  flood, 
To  the  reel  of  the  blood, 
Dance!  lilt!  swing! 
And  off!  Awing 
With  the  gold-throat  oriole. 

Mary  Fleming,  1902. 


28 


THROUGH  WINTER  WOODS 

Gray  mottled  beech  trunks  locked  in  snow, 

And  a  muffled  stillness  all  around; 

A  stillness  cut  with  the  little  smack 

Of  a  tiny  twig  a-springing  back 

As  a  ball  of  snow  with  a  breathy  sound 

Drops  from  the  iced  green  pines  bent  low. 

Pale  yellow  shafts  on  a  snow  blue-white 
And  a  molten  sun  behind  the  hill; 
And  thickening  shadows  under  the  trees 
And  the  sharp  little  sting  of  a  sudden 

breeze, 

As  up  from  the  crackled  crusted  rill 
Comes  the  clean-cut  breath  of  the  winter's 

night. 

Margaret  Adelaide  Pollard,  1902. 


29 


THE  SEER 

To  dwell  alone  in  countries  of  the  sun; 
To  go  all  uncompanioned  in  the  light; 
To  see  the  valleys  from  a  windy  height, 
And  long  to  rest  therein,  day  being  done. 
To  weary  of  the  beauties,  one  by  one, 
That   shine   across   the   air   too   bleakly 

bright; 

To  be  too  close  upon  the  stars  by  night. 
And,  lonely  as  the  peak,  abide  thereon! 

Immortal  mind  and  mortal  heart  that 
yearns, 

Grave  wondrous  soul  to  whom  God  speaks 
his  word, 

The  skies  are  cold,  and  earth  is  warm  with 
love! 

Come  for  a  space  to  where  the  hearth- 
fire  burns. 

And  then  if  God's  own  voice  should  sound 
unheard! 

Nay,  thou  shalt  watch  and  wait  and 
dream  thereof. 

Mary  Burl  Maser,  S. 
30 


WHITE  WINGS 

She  lingered  for  a  while  beside  life's  sea, 
Gathering    strange,    lovely    thoughts    to 

string  like  shells 
In  lyric  lengths  of  song, 
Numbering  the  rhythmic  beating  of  the 

deep, 
Watching  the  soft,  clear  day  steal  from 

the  east, 
Or  westward  fading,  touch  the  crinkling 

waves 

With  tender  glory;  and  she  saw  the  boats 
Glide  with  ribbed  sails  across  the  sun, 

and  flit 
Whit'ning    through    the    blue    distance, 

where  afar 
The  heavenly  country  lies  all  wrapped 

in  mist. 
There  most  of  all  she  gazed,  and  if  a 

gleam 
Threaded  the  mist,  her  passionate,  grave 

eyes 

31 


With  more  than  earthly  lustre  caught  its 

light; 

Thus  did  she  live  until  her  soul  took  wing 
And  vanished,  like  some  white  bird,  in 

the  blue. 

Elsie  Mitchell  Rtuhmore,  1906. 


32 


SONG  OF  AN  IRISH  MOTHER 

Out  'cross  the  swamp  and  the  mire 

The  weirdies  are  flashin'  their  fire, 

An*  down  in  the  log-wood  the  soft  rains 

are  fallin', 
Where  the  wee  lonesome  fairies  are  callin' 

and  callin', 

With  voices  that  sound  like  yours, 
With  voices  that  sound  like  yours. 

Your  daddy's  old  pipe's  gettin'  low, 
Where  he  sits  in  the  hearth-fire's  glow, 
And  all  'round  the  thatch-roof  the  rain 

spirit's  swishin' 
While  I'm  waitin'  here,  darlin',  a  wishin' 

an'  wishin' 

You  were  back  in  this  cradle  o'  yours, 
You  were  back  in  this  cradle  o'  yours. 

Olite  Steioart,  1908. 


33 


ELEMENTAL 

There  are  five  elements  of  which  all  existing  things 
are  composed, — Earth,  Air    Fire,  Water,  and  Ether 

Japanese  Legend. 

Driven  wind  on  the  gray  hill's  crest, 
Wandering   breeze   in   the   green   marsh 
grass; 

Measureless  height  and  endless  reach, 
Deepening  blue  of  the  open  sky; 

Flame, — the  sweep  of  a  red-hot  scourge, 
And  the  licking  tongue  of  the  leaping  fire: 

Frolic  of  water  over  the  stones; 
Limpid  depths  of  a  quiet  pool: 

The  odor  of  fresh-turned  earth  in  spring, 
Warm  and  virile  and  rich  with  life. 

Passionate,  vivid,  wayward,  free, 
Beloved,  you're  all  of  the  world  to  me. 

Eliza  Adelaide  Draper,  1907. 
34 


THE  CHORUS 

Whisper  to  the  moon-gleam, 

Whisper  to  the  sea, 
Whisper  to  the  moonbeam, 

Follow,  follow  me. 

When  the  wind  is  in  the  willows, 

And  the  fireflies  in  the  glen, 
And  the  moonlight  on  the  pillows 

Of  sleep-enamoured  men, — 

When  the  elves  are  in  the  forest, 
Seeking  starshine  in  the  dew, 

And  their  tiny  tunes  are  chorused 

Where    the    starlight    filters    through; 

Then,  whisper  to  the  moon-gleams, 

Whisper  to  the  sea, 
Whisper  to  the  moonbeams, 

Follow,  follow  me. 

Louise  Metier y,  1907. 


35 


A  PAGAN 

I  am  a  pagan,  I! 

I  worship  earth  and  sun  and  sea  and  sky; 

I  hold  no  faith,  expressed  in  mankind's 
words. 

My  creed  comes  to  me  in  the  song  of 
birds, 

And  waving  grasses,  and  the  sun's  glad 
light, 

And  strong,  high  hills  and  rivers,  silver- 
bright, 

And  soft,  still  clouds  that  silently  float 
by,- 

I  am  a  pagan,  I! 

I  never  wonder  why 

All  men  are  born  to  sin,  and  then  to  die. 
I  only  love  the  whole  great  world  around, 
And  revel  in  its  joy  of  sight  and  sound. 
I  love  it  all, — I  love,  and  long  to  praise 
The  strange,  great  unknown  Soul  of  it 
always, 

36 


The  Soul  of  earth  and  sun  and  sea  and 

sky,-- 
Am  I  a  pagan,  I? 

Beatrice  Daw,  1909. 


ON  THE  COAST  OF  MAINE 

I. 

Off-Shore 

The  dappled  blue  of  the  evening  sky, 
With  the  cloud-rack  in  the  west, 

All  purpled  bright  in  the  living  light, 
Like  the  Islands  of  the  Blest. 

And  out  of  the  islands  sweeps  the  wind 
As  much  as  the  sails  can  hold, 

As  we  race  home  through  the  rustling  foam 
And  the  grey  waves  laced  with  gold. 

II. 
In  the  Fog 

The  cool  grey  wraps  us  more  and  more, 
Our  slack  sail  lifts  to  the  fitful  wind, 
And  I  see  through  the  rift  where  the 
fog  has  thinned 

The  floating  ghost  of  the  distant  shore. 

38 


III. 

On  the  Sand-Bar 

The    curdling    foam    on    the    blue-black 

sands, 

The  lap  and  splash  of  the  rising  tide, 
As  it  slowly  creeps  to  the  farther  side, 
Where  the  lone  tree  stretches  its  ghostly 
hands. 


IV. 

A  Summer  Storm 

A  leaden  sea  and  a  silver  sky, 

A  line  of  light  at  the  sunset  edge, 

Long  wisps  of  cloud  go  drifting  by, 

While  the  white  foam  licks  at  the  rocky 
ledge. 

Then  the  shouting  sea-wind  takes  its  toll? 

From  the  moaning  forest's  pain, 
And  the  storm  sweeps  by  with  the  thun- 
der's roll, 

And  the  rattle  of  the  rain. 

39 


V. 

In  the  Pine- Woods 

The  sunlight  through  the  pines 

Touches  the  mossy  stones  with  living 

green, 
And  marks  the  silver  lines 

Left  where  the  fairy  spinner's  way  has 

been. 

• 

With  tender  murmuring 

The  fragrant  breezes  steal  from  tree  to 

tree, 
And  now  the  vagrants  bring 

The  vital  freshness  of  the  distant  sea. 


VI. 
Outward-Bound 

The  schooner's  sail  is  slack  and  drawn 
And  the  schooner's  wheel  is  still, 

And  the  sick  prow  lifts  through  the  shift- 
ing seas, 
Like  a  thing  bereft  of  will. 

40 


For  the  grey  fog  wraps  us  round,  my  lads, 
And  the  good  ship  needs  must  stay, 

Then  hey  and  ho!  for  the  bonny  breeze, 
That  drives  the  fog  away. 

There's    a    crinkling    over    the    sluggish 
waves, 

A  whispering  in  the  sail, 
And  the  schooner  turns  like  a  tired  dog, 

At  the  sound  of  his  master's  hail. 

For  the  grey  fog  lifts  off-shore,  my  lads, 
And  the  good  ship  bounds  away. 

Then  hey  and  ho!  for  the  bonny  breeze 
That  drives  the  fog  away. 

Louisa  Brooke,  1907. 


41 


TO-NIGHT  LIFE'S  WEB  SEEMED 
TWISTED  ALL  AWRY 

To-night  life's   web   seemed   twisted   all 

awry, 

Its  faded  colors  trampled  in  the  ground, 
Till  here,  within  the  darkening  woods,  I 

found 

This  quiet  pool  beneath  the  starlit  sky. 
The  waters  deeply  still,  the  lissome  reeds 
Scarce  ruffling  its  smooth  surface,  the  low, 

soft 

Monotonous  murmur  of  the  pines  aloft, 
The  very  air  a  sweet  contentment  breeds. 
Above,  a  heron  floats  on  softened  wing. 
Deep  in  the  woods  a  liquid-thrilling 

thrush 
Voices    the    dumb    souled    Night.     And 

through  the  hush 

I  feel  your  great,  calm  spirit  comforting. 
The  tangled  webs  grow  straight.  And 

now  we  seem 
Together,    'neath   the   stars,   to   sit   and 

dream.  Dorothea  Gay,  1911. 

42 


WHERE  THE  WAVES  MEET  THE 
SHORE 

My  fingers  touch  the  cool,  firm  sand, 
They  let  it  sift  between  them,  lovingly. 
The  little  waves,  with  rhythmic  melody, 
Hush,  and  whisper,  and  break  forth  in 

gentle  song, 

As  they  plash  in  and  out; 
As   each   recedes,   the   uncovered   beach 
Is  quickened  with  a  life  from  out  the  west, 
And — like  the  dew  drops  on  the  faery 

webs 

That  breathe  with  color  in  the  early  morn- 
Each  moment  it  receives  the  warm  caress 
Of  that  far,  radiant  space  beyond  the  sea, 
And,  shimmering  momently,  gives  back 
A  quiet  answer,  with  a  flush 
Of  soft  dream  fire. 

Katherine  Taylor,  1910. 


43 


CHRISTMAS 

Mother,   just   listen — town   is   sparkly 
bright, 

And  windows  full  of  gorgeous  things, 
And  holly,  bundles,  people — Oh,   I   saw 

Such  cunning  angel's  wings. 

But  out  doors  here  it  is  so  very  still, 
My  stars  are  smiling  far  away, 

I  can't  tell  why, — and  then  the  little  wind 
Just  kissed  me,  and  won't  say. 

Mother,   you're  smiling  like  the  people 
too, 

And  like  the  little  wind,  and  why 
Am  I  so  very  happy — just  so  glad, 

And  inside  want  to  cry? 

Sarah  //incfr,  1910. 


44 


FLUCTUATION 

It   lies   o'er   grain-fields   surging  in    the 

breeze; 
On  the  dim  wood-path  in  the  glancing 

shift 
Of  sunlight  falling  through  the  air-stirred 

trees; 

Or  on  the  ocean  in  the  breathless  lift 
Of  moon-tracked  swells   not  risen  to  a 

wave; 
In   autumn  leaves   revolving   as   they 

drift; 
In  eyes,  as  Dante  calls  them,  "slow  and 

grave"; 
In  smiles  of  earnest  men  and  human 

seers. — 

A  certain  rhythmic  play  of  light  and  shade 
That    weaves    the    shimmering    fabric 
of  our  years. 

Hazel  Bishop  Poole,  1909. 


45 


THE  SEA-SHORE 

The  sun  is  warm  upon  my  back, 
As  warm  as  mother's  hand, 
And  where  I've  dug  my  well  to-day 
'There's  water  in  the  sand. 

The  Chinese  boys  down  underneath, 
Are  they  as  warm  as  me? 
The  water  half-way  down  my  well 
Is  cold  as  it  can  be. 

Ruth  Elizabeth  Presley,  1909. 


46 


IN  THE  HOSPITAL 

These  days  when  I  am  sick  in  bed — 
I've  been  in  bed  so  long  you  know — 
I  lie  and  listen  to  the  steps 
And  wonder  where  they  go. 

They  hurry  past  out  on  the  walk 
And  hurry  up  the  empty  street, 
They're  going  home's  fast  they  can, 
I  know  those  happy  feet. 

Sometimes  out  in  the  corridor 
A  nurse  goes  by  with  slow,  soft  slide; 
Sometimes  she  hurries — then  I  know 
Some  boy  like  me,  has  died. 

Ruth  Elizabeth  Presley,  1909. 


47 


SUMMER  WINDS 

They  rush  along,  the  daughters  of  the 

wind, 

Grey-eyed,     strong-limbed,    their     dust- 
brown  hair  swirled  back. 
The  children  of  the  great  warm  west  are 

they. 
One,  high  among  the  white  cloud  domes 

that  hang 

So  lazy  in  the  sky,  stirs  them  to  life. 
Another  skims  across  the  grass  that  bends 
In  silver  waves  beneath  her  scarce-felt 

tread. 
Then,  darting  up,  past  twinkling  maple 

leaves, 

Bows  down  the  tall  elm's  crown. 
But  onward,  ever  onward  still  they  rush, 
And  meeting  in  the  wood,  sigh  through 

the  pines 
And  pass  and  leave  behind   in  drowsy 

heat, 
A  breathless  calm,  close-wrapping  like  a 

shroud.  Margaret  Adams  Hobbs,  1910. 

48 


FLITTER-MOTH 

On  the  road  to — Anywhere! — once  I  met 

her  singing; 

Such  a  little  elf  was  she, 
Winsome,  full  of  witchery, 
Shy  as  any  sprite  could  be, — 

Dancing,  flitting,  winging. 

On   the   road   to — Anywhere! — over   hill 
and  hollow, 

Where  the  little  witch  demure, 

Ever  beckoning,  doth  lure, 

Weary,  humble  and  obscure, 
I,  her  pilgrim,  follow. 

On  the  road  to — Anywhere! — I  will  ne'er 

forsake  her. 

Though  the  little  witch  may  be 
Naught  but  errant  Fantasy, 
Though  she  flout  and  mock  at  me, 

I  will  overtake  her. 

GencoieceJ.  Williams,  1911. 


49 


MORNING  ON  THE  RIVER 

The  river  moves  in  silvery  expanse, 
Soft-brushed   with   early  mist  along   its 

shores, 
Whose  peaceful  slopes  lie  slumbering  dim 

and  gray,— 
While  far  above  one  glistening  white  gull 

soars. 

Helen  Lathrop,  1911. 


50 


THE    POET'S    MISTRESS    SINGS 

My  love  is  not  as  other  lovers  are — 

He  comes  to  me  from  planets  more  re- 
mote; 

The  voice  of  distant  worlds  is  in  his 
throat, 

His  eyes  have  caught  the  light  of  some 
strange  star. 

Such  gifts  he  brings  as  queens  in  vain  de- 
sire, 

Proud  queens,  for  all  their  crowns  of 
carven  gold, 

Their  silken  robes,  in  lustrous  fold  on  fold, 

For  all  their  gems  that  flame  like  frozen 
fire.  « 

Their  hearts  cry  vainly  for  the  gifts  he 

brings — 
Wild,  winged  songs  that  soar  and  flash 

and  fall, 

51 


Dark,  splendid  songs,  and  beautiful  and 

small 
Sweet  songs  that  softly  to  my  heart  he 

sings. 

For  through  the  circling  worlds  he  takes 

his  flight, 
Seeking  rare  songs,  that  I,  his  love,  may 

be 

Clothed  in  the  subtle  splendor  of  the  sea, 
Crowned  with  the  ancient  glory  of  the 

night. 

GeMtitccJ.  Williams,  1911. 


52 


EXILE 

Alfalfa  fields,  at  twilight  purple-gray, 
Where  western  prairie  bounds  the  curve 

of  sky, — 

A  narrow  road  that  has  nor  tree  nor  bend, 
A  toiler  from  the  mill  who  passes  by. 

A  figure  with  a  tinge  of  Old  World  grace, 
Deep  color  in  the  kerchief  knotted  free, 
Young  eyes  that  hold  a  hint  of  Athens' 

gleam,— 
A  longing  for  a  sunlit,  azure  sea. 

Marion  Eleanor  Crampton,  191 1. 


53 


THE  KNOT-HOLE 

There's  a  whiff  of  dust  comin'  down  the 
road, 
It's    fairies    in    dust    clouds    that's 

blowin', 
Find  a  knot-hole  to  look  at  them  through, 

boyneen, 
And  their  errand  you'll  be  knowin'. 

'Tis  I  had  better  be  lookin'  myself, 

Wurra,  be  keepin'  behind — 
When   the   Little   Men   catch   your   eye 

through  the  knot, 

'Tis  the  black  curse  they  give,  strike 
you  blind. 

If  they  should  bring  me  a  changeling, 

now, 
'Tis   a   trouble  for   some   one   they're 

bearin', 

See  the  crooked,  dancin'  legs  on  them, 
And  the  scraps  of  coats  they're  wearin'. 

54 


Mother  Mercy,  did  one  of  them  see  me 

then? 

The  crowd's  gettin'  distant  and  far, 
The  corn  crake  is  cryin' — it's  day  then, 

sure, 
Boyneen,  where  is  it  you  are! 

Margaret  Frances  Culkin,  1912. 


55 


SAXON  LULLABY 

Folded  asleep  are  the  Hawthorne  blows, 
And  faint  on  the  evening  wind  is  the  rose. 
Wriggle  no  more,  little  son,  be  still, 
For  the  Lord  of  Dreams  waits  here  at  the 

sill. 
By-low-low. 

Thou  shalt  ride  this  night  on  a  milk- 
white  steed, 

Shod  by  Weland  with  shoes  of  speed, 

Adown  the  gleaming  Roman  road, 

Its  border  with  scarlet  dream-blooms 
sowed, 

And  the  wind  shall  whistle  through  thy 
locks — 

But  when  thou  hearest  the  surf  on  the 
rocks. 

Draw  rein  and  remember  thy  mother  at 
home. 

Draw  rein,  turn  back  oh  son  of  mine! 
Though  sky  is  blue  and  white  sails  shine, 
56 


Though  the  ring-necked   ships   do   thee 

courtesy, 
And  in  homage  the  sea-birds  dip  to  the 

sea. 

Trust  not  the  slow  waves  heaving  black; 
More  men  go  out  than  e'er  come  back 
Over  the  gannet — road  to  Rome. 

So,  so!  I  meant  not  to  fright  thee,  hush! 
The  linnet  is  singing  good-night  to  the 

thrush. 

All  out  of  doors  is  drowsy  and  gray, 
And  I  wait  to  speed  thee  on  thy  way. 
By-low-low. 

Dorothea  Gay,  1911. 


57 


AFTERWARDS 

I  think  you  sent  the  withered  leaves 
That  blew  all  day  across  the  grass, 

All  day,  all  day  they  rustled  by, 
A  tattered,  flying  mass. 

For  all  the  world  was  whirling  leaves 
Against  the  lonely,  wind-swept  sky, 

And  every  leaf  was  whispering 
Your  name  as  it  flew  by. 

Tonight  the  leaves  lie  quietly, 
Sodden  and  still  beneath  the  rain 

That  drums  along  the  eaves,  and  drives 
Against  the  window  pane. 

GtneoieotJ.  Williams.  1911. 


58 


QUEEN'S  LACE 

Child!  how  high  the  brown  weeds  stand, 
Reaching  up  to  touch  your  hand! 
Round  your  knees  the  Queen's  lacedry 
Holds  up  cups  as  you  pass  by. 
You,  who  see  the  tiny  elves 
In  those  seed-cups  rock  themselves, 
Tell  the  flowers  to  love  me  too, 
Reaching  cups  to  me  as  you! 

Frances  Shriccr,  1911. 


59 


FROM  THE  DUSK 

The  dark'ning  road  had  hidden  you;   I 

turned 
In  dread  to  see  the  home  we  loved,  but 

watched 

The  garden  changed  to  spirit;  tinged  trees 
That  rose  across  the  mist,  or  glowed  like 

cloud 
About  the  lamps;  a  vague  dim  sky  that 

made 

All  distance  nothing,  even  absence  all 
Mistaken  fear;  then  felt  you  close  and 

groped — 
And  struck  my  hand  against  the  iron 

gate. 

Elizabeth  Too/,  1913. 


60 


PIERRETTE 

Ah,  Pierrette!     I  see  thee  dance 

Amid  the  maskers  gay. 

With  piquant  poise,  with  witching  glance, 

As  sweetly  pale  a  face 

As  an  arbutus  bud  in  May, 

Save  for  the  scarlet  lips, 

So  laughing  light  with  wind-swayed  grace 

Through  music's  maze  you  trip. 

Ah,  Pierrette!     I  know  thy  heart, 

A  burning  crimson  rose 

By  folly's  rude  hand  plucked  apart 

To  many  a  bleeding  shred, 

Robbed  of  its  bloom  by  sorrow's  snows. 

One  night  when  I  was  near, 

"Ah,  God!     I   wish  that  I   were  dead," 

You  whispered  in  my  ear. 

1913. 


61 


THE  WIND  SONG 

I  am  the  child  of  the  sea — 
I  sweep  the  purple  fog  on  its  landward 

track, 
I  cry  in  the  thundering  roar  of  the  ocean 

surge, 
I  beat  the  crests  of  the  towering  waves  to 

foam, 
And  dash  them  down  to  burst  on  the  angry 

reefs; 

I  tear  the  sea-weed  black  from  the  salt- 
sprayed  rock, 
I  lash  the  stark  brown  cliffs  with  hissing 

surf, 
I    toss    and     buffet     the     treasure-laden 

ships, 
And  strip  the  taut-stretched  sail  from  the 

shivering  mast, 
And  strew  the  waste  of  waves  with  their 

golden  spoils, 
And  hurl  them  up  to  rot  on  the  strangers' 

shore, 

And  mock  at  the  hopes  of  men. 
62 


I  am  the  child  of  the  land — 
I   whistle  in  whirling  dust  through  the 

city  street, 

I  shriek  through  the  rigid  frame  of  slen- 
der steel, 
Looming  black  and  bare  to  the  cold  green 

sky; 
I  batter  the  thousand  panes  with  shower 

of  hail, 
Sweeping  the  roof  and  the  cornice  heaped 

with  snow; 

I  blow  o'er  the  rolling  prairies'  inland  sea, 
Where  the  fields  of  corn  lie  red  in  the 

evening  light, 
And  the  deepening  purple  shadows  creep 

to  the  east, 
As  the  curling  smoke  cloud  beckons  the 

laborer  home; 
I  rush  o'er  the  western  ranges  wide  and 

clear, 
With  the  sage  brush  green  and  gray  in  the 

morning  sun, 
The  rock-red  soil  and  the  brown  of  the 

stunted  pine; 
I  sing  in  the  rhythmic  beat  of  the  broncho's 

hoofs, 

63 


The   blast   of   the   surging   stream   that 

seeks  for  gold, 
The  thud  of  the  axe  as  it  swings  in  the 

clearing  green; 

I  moan  through  the  desert's  awful  silences, 
Where  the  cold  gray  rocks,  'mid  the  miles 

of  barren  brush, 
From  a  level  sea  loom  gaunt  to  the  ghostly 

moon; 
I  howl  in  the  roar  of  the  train  with  its 

shower  of  fire, 
The  piercing  engine's  shriek  through  the 

black  ravine, 

The  wild  coyote's  cry  to  the  lonely  stars; 
I  sweep  o'er  the  empty  wastes  of  sand, 

and  yearn 
For  the  finite  souls  of  men. 

Henrietie  dc  Saussurc  Bland  ing,  1912. 


64 


AFTER  THE  SEASON 

Untrampled  lies  the  sand,  smooth,  hard 

and  clean, 
Scattered  with  gleaming  yellow  cockle 

shells 
And  bits  of  grey  drift-wood.     The  cool 

air  smells 
Freshly  of  salt,  most  when  the  wind  blows 

keen 

From  off  south-lying  fishing  banks.     Se- 
rene 
The  pale  blue  sky  bends  down  to  meet 

the  swells 
That  set  the  buoys  aswing  and  toll  the 

bells, 
Then  break  upon  the  bar,  wild  white  and 

green. 

The  bathing  beach  is  marked  by  rope- 
less  posts; 
The  vacant  board-walk  stretches  dull 

and  bare. 
The  Old  Casino's  shuttered  windows 

stare 

65 


Half-crazed    by    sighing    of    the    uneasy 

ghosts 
Of  tunes  the  band  used,  summer  long, 

to  play,-- 
Far  out  at  sea  one  ship's  smoke  fades 

away. 

Helen  Dorothea  Romer,  1912. 


66 


SLEEP  SONG  OF  THE  PINES 

Dimness  and  dusky  bars 
Drift  on  the  branches'  light; 
Dearer  than  song  are  stars, 
Dearer  than  day  is  night. 

Moon-quivers  pale  and  long 
Meet  on  the  mosses  gray. 
Dearer  is  dream  than  song, 
Dearer  is  night  than  day. 

Elizabeth  Toof,  1913. 


67 


TRISTRAM 

For  me,  Iseult,  the  shadows  of  your  hair 
Hold  all  the  .dusky  sweetness  of  the  night, 
Your  eyes  the  joy  of  all  the  shining  stars. 
Deep  in  your  voice  the  comfort  of  the  rain, 
The  warmth  and  vibrant  stillness  of  noon 

suns 

Lie  folded,  as  in  promise  of  the  Spring. 
I  can  not  let  you  go!  Your  loss  would  be 
The  loss  of  all  the  meaning  that  is  Life. 

Yet — sometimes    when    the    night    wind 

holds  her  breath 
A  voice  cries  through  the  darkness:  "This 

is  Death!" 

Elizabeth  Mason  Heath,  1916. 


68 


ALYTH 

Naked  as  sun-fleck  she  treads  the  brook, 
Trailing  the  water  weed  tangled  there; 

Glows  of  her  hair  make  the  shadows  blind; 
Teased  by  her  laughter  the  winds  des- 
pair. 

Stain  of  the  rushes  and  tear  of  thorn 
Darken  her  feet  in  the  water's  flow; 

Glimmers  that  fall  from  her  breast  and 

hair 
Mingle  and  stir  like  a  lily's  glow. 

Elizabeth  Toof,  1913. 


69 


WINDS   AND   THE   LILIES 

I  wish  I  were  the  wind  that  blows 

In  the  wood-lilies, 

And  bends  and  breaks  them  and  then 

goes. 
What  of  the  broken   lilies  then?     Who 

knows, 
For  who  thinks  twice  of  anything  the 

wind 

Has  torn  and  thinned! 
Deep  golden  petals  scattered  on  the  air 
Drift  here  and  there- 
Deep    tawny    golden — more    like    Inyr's 

hair 
Than  anything  I've  dreamed  of;  she  is 

pale 

And  slim  and  frail 
As  the  slenderest  lily-stalks  Heaven  knows. 

I  wish  I  were  the  wind  that  blows 
In  the  wood-lilies 

And  bends  and  breaks  them  and  then 
goes. 

Helen  Lombaerl  Scobey,  1913. 
70 


FROM  HOMER 

"Homer,  thy  song  men  liken  to  the  sea, 
With  every  note  of  music  in  his  tone, 
With  tides  that  wash  the  wide  dominion 
Of  Hades,  and  light  waves  that  lash  in 

glee, 
Around  the  isles  enchanted.  *****" 

Before  me  sweeps  the  dark  and  widening 

sea 
And  wistfully,  I  strain  my  eyes  across  the 

waves 
To  glimpse  the  sturdy,  wing-sailed  ship 

that  bears 
My    son    again   to    Ithaca  *  *  *  a   fair 

haired  lad, 
Boy  to  the  battle-famed  Odysseus,  who 

had 

But  lately  left  his  play,  to  sail 
To  far  off  Ilium,  o'er  the  deepening  sea. 
How    long    the    years    have    been;    how 

heavy-winged! 

71 


The  lad  mayhap  has  changed;  his  eyes 

less  young, 

His  voice  less  full  of  joyous  mirth; 
His  heart — oh  Zeus  immortal,  give  to  me 
His  heart  as  sweet,  as  when  he  played  at 

ball 

Beside  me  in  the  sunny  megaron  *  *  *  * 
While  I  plied  back  and  forth  to  spin  for 

him 

A  kiton  from  new-carded  wool  ***** 
How  long  the  watch  is;  and  how  dark  the 

sea. 

Rebecca  Park  Lawrence,  1913. 


72 


A  PRAYER  TO  BUDDHA 

The   wind   has   blown   against   my   face 
A  leaf  of  mist-wet  bloom. 

In  calm  of  depthless  thinking,  look  forever 
Upon    the    leaves    of    lake-lapped    lotus 

flowers, 
No  chanting  from  thy  temples  break  thy 

musing] 
Nor  prayer  bells  mark  the  silence  into  hours. 

But  when  the  smoke  of  sandal-wood  is 
rising 

From  Temples  where  the  throbs  of  chant- 
ing cease, — 

Because  that  scent  once  stilled  thy  prayer 
to  silence, 

Upon  thy  people  lay  the  spell  of  peace. 

The  wind  has  blown  against  my  face 
A  leaf  of  mist-wet  bloom. 

EUzaleA  Too/.  1913. 
73 


THE  ABBEY  BELLS  OF  MIDDEL- 
BURG 

At  Middelburg  the  night  drags  slow 
Because  the  chimes  are  never  still, 
But  mark  the  quarters  as  they  go 
With  carillons  unending,  shrill. 
You  hear  the  bells  at  Middelburg, 
The  Abbey  bells  of  Middelburg, 
Until  it  seems  the  live-long  night 
Is  full  of  bells  at  Middelburg. 

You  may  have  visions  between  bells 
Of  Rosendaal  with  hedge-rimmed  fields, 
Or  Dort  with  Docks,  or  somewhere  else 
With  long  low-lying  poppy  fields, 
Or  Domburg's  dykes  and  windmill  wings- 
But  these  are  visions  that  give  place 
As  night  creeps  on  to  sadder  things, 
While  quarters  drag  and  bells  keep  pace. 

When  hope  is  dead  and  sleep  is  vain. 
And  thoughts  are  mad,  but  dreams  are 

worse, 

74 


And  every  chime  smites  like  a  pain, 
And  carillons  become  a  curse, 
You  hear  the  bells  at  Middelburg, 
The  shrill  high  bells  at  Middelburg, 
Until  you  think  the  live-long  night 
Is  cursed  with  bells  at  Middelburg. 

Helen  Lombaert  Scobey,  1913. 


75 


TO  A  STRANGER 

I  have  seen  you  arise  and  go  forth  in  the 
night 

And  run  up  a  white  winding  way 

To  the  top  of  a  hill,  through  the  grass  un- 
der stars, 

Where  you  chased  the  wild  wind  in  your 
play. 

You  were  mad  when  you  tossed  back  your 

bare  head  and  laughed, 
When  you  caught  at  a  star  in  its  fall, 
It  changed  to  a  glimmering  moth  and 

flew  by,— 
0  tonight,  when  you  pass,  will  you  call? 

Ruth  Thomas  Pickering.  1914. 


76 


LOVE  SONG 

I  love  you  with  a  heart  that  dances  in 

the  sunshine, 
That  sings  the  strangest  wildness  of  a 

wild  blue  wave, 
That  trembles  in  the  fierce  sweep  of  a 

green  streaked  wind  storm, 
When  pine  trees  break  and  lost  birds  cry, 

and  sky-topped  rock  cliffs  cave. 

I  wait  for  you  where  clouds  stretch  pale 
and  far  off  northward. 

Where  fruits  red  ripe  are  hanging  breath- 
less in  noon  light, 

Where  yellow  birds  are  flying  over  purple 
flowers. 

Where  grasses  blow  with  restless  yearn- 
ing all  the  long  white  night. 

Ruth  Thomas  Pickering,  1914. 


77 


O,  I  WENT  DOWN  TO  THE  RIVER 
BANK 

0,  I  went  down  to  the  river  bank 
Last  night 

When  a  million  stars  were  bright 
And  you  in  the  long  grass  lay. 

0,  the  wind  blew  over  the  river  bank 
Last  night 

And  the  touch  of  your  lips  was  light 
As  we  in  the  long  grass  lay. 

0,  I  came  up  from  the  river  bank 

Alone, 

While  the  weary  wind  made  moan 

And  the  dawn  on  the  crushed  grass  lay. 

Ruth  Thomas  Pickering,  1914. 


78 


EVENING 

When  Evening  first,  rising  from  day-long 
rest, 

Cups  her  slow  hands  'round  Day's  too 
dazzling  light, 

Still  through  her  fingers  slips  a  radiance 
bright 

Reddening  and  spreading  in  the  darken- 
ing west. 

She  sighs;  and  in  the  fragrant  dusk,  the 
breeze 

Makes  whispered  music  through  the  qui- 
vering trees; 

Then  strengthening  Night  snuffs  out  the 
Day's  last  spark 

And  sets  the  first  star  shimmering  in  the 
dark. 

Carolyn  Crosby  Wihon,  1917. 


79 


PERSEPHONE  TO  ORPHEUS 

I  do  remember  now  a  far  off  day 
And  long-forgotten  in  this  frozen  place,— 
A  gleam  of  sunlit  flowers,  wet  with  spray, 
And  the  long  sea   beach   whitening  for 

a  space 
Between  the  green  land  and  the  purple 

sea. 
The  black  car  hurtles  through  the  startled 

air. 

Forever  mingled  with  my  young  despair 
The  sharp  tang  of  the  sea-salt  strangles 

me. 

Singer,  your  song  has  waked  to  life  again 
The  dear  lost  gift  of  tears,  and  all  the 

whirl 
Of  quick-pulsed  love  and  hatred.     Sweet 

is  pain 
To  one  long  dead  to  passion, — Take  the 

girl! 

Elizabeth  Mason  Heath,  1916. 


80 


INTERIM 

A  man  speaks 

The  room  is  full  of  you! — As  I  came  in 
And  closed  the  door  behind  me,  all  at  once 
A  something  in  the  air,  intangible, 
Yet  stiff  with  meaning,  struck  my  senses 

sick!- 

Sharp,  unfamiliar  odors  have  destroyed 
Each  other  room's  dear  personality. 
The  heavy  scent  of  damp,  funereal  flowers, 
The  very  essence,  hush-distilled,  of  Death, 
Has    strangled   that   habitual    breath   of 

home 

Whose  expiration  leaves  all  houses  dead; 
And  whereso'er  I  look  is  hideous  change. 
Save   here.     Here    'twas    as    if    a    weed- 
choked  gate 

Had  opened  at  my  touch,  and  I  had  step- 
ped 

Into  some  long-forgot,  enchanted,  strange, 
Sweet  garden  of  a  thousand  years  ago 

81 


And  suddenly  thought,  "I  have  been  here 
before!" 

You  are  not  here.     I  know  that  you  are 

gone, 

And  will  not  ever  enter  here  again. 
And  yet  it  seems  to  me,  if  I  should  speak, 
Your  silent  step  must  wake  across  the 

hall; 
If  I  should  turn  my  head,  that  your  sweet 

eyes 
Would  kiss  me  from  the  door. — So  short 

a  time 

To  teach  my  life  its  transposition  to 
This  difficult  and  unaccustomed  key!— 

The  room  is  as  you  left  it;  your  last  touch 
A  thoughtless  pressure,  knowing  not  it- 
self 
As    saintly — hallows    now    each    simple 

thing; 

Hallows  and  glorifies,  and  glows  between 
The  dust's  gray  fingers  like  a  shielded 
light. 

There  is  your  book,  just  as  you  laid  it 

down, 

82 


Face  to  the  table, — I  cannot  believe 
That  you  are  gone! — Just  then  it  seemed 

to  me 
You  must  be  here.     I  almost  laughed  to 

think 

How  like  reality  the  dream  had  been; 
Yet  knew  before  I  laughed,  and  so  was 

still. 

That  book,  out-spread,  just  as  you  laid 

it  down! 
Perhaps  you  thought,   "I   wonder  what 

comes  next, 

And  whether  this  or  this  will  be  the  end," 
So  rose  and  left  it,  thinking  to  return. 

Perhaps  that  chair,  when  you  arose  and 

passed 

Out  of  the  room,  rocked  silently  a  while 
Ere  it  again  was  still.     When    you  were 

gone 
Forever   from   the   room,    perhaps    that 

chair, 
Stirred  by  your  movement,  rocked  a  little 

while, 

Silently  to  and  fro********** 
83 


And  here  are  the  last  words  your  fingers 

wrote, 
Scrawled    in    broad    characters  across  a 

page 
In  this  brown  book  I  gave  you.     Here 

your  hand, 
Guiding  your  rapid  pen,  moved  up  and 

down. 

Here  with  a  looping  knot  you  crossed  a 
««. » 
t  » 

And  here  another  like  it,  just  beyond 

These    two   eccentric   "e's".     You    were 
so  small, 

And  wrote  so  brave  a  hand! 

How  strange  it  seems 

That  of  all  words  these  are  the  words 
you  chose! 

And  yet  a  simple  choice;  you  did  not 
know 

You  would  not  write  again.     If  you  had 
known— 

But  then,  it  does  not  matter, — and  in- 
deed, 

If  you  had  known  there  was  so  little  time 

You  would  have  dropped  your  pen  and 
come  to  me, 

84 


And  this  page  would  be  empty,  and  some 
phrase 

Other  than  this  would  hold  my  wonder 
now. 

Yet,  since  you  could  not  know,  and  it 
befell 

That  these  are  the  last  words  your  fingers 
wrote, 

There  is  a  dignity  some  might  not  see 

In  this,  "I  picked  the  first  sweet-pea  to- 
day." 

To-day!  Was  there  an  opening  bud  be- 
side it 

You  left  until  tomorrow? — 0,  my  love, 
The  things  that  withered, — and  you  came 

not  back! 

That  day  you  filled  the  circle  of  my  arms 
That  now  is  empty.  (0,  my  empty  life!) 
That  day — that  day  you  picked  the  first 

sweet-pea, — 

And  brought  it  in  to  show  me!     I  recall 
With  terrible  distinctness  how  the  smell 
Of  your  cool  gardens  drifted  in  with  you. 
I  know,  you  held  it  up  for  me  to  see 
85 


And  flushed  because  I  looked  not  at  the 

flower 
But  at  your  face;  and  when  behind  my 

look 

You  saw  such  unmistakable  intent. 
You    laughed  and  brushed   your  flower 

against  my  lips. 
(You  were  the  fairest  thing   God  ever 

made, 
I  think.)     And  then  your  hands  above 

my  heart 

Drew  down  its  stem  into  a  fastening, 
And  while  your  head  was  bent  I  kissed 

your  hair. 

I  wonder  if  you  knew.     (Beloved  hands! 
Somehow   I    cannot   seem   to    see   them 

still. 

Somehow  I  cannot  seem  to  see  the  dust 
In  your  bright  hair.)     What  is  the  need 

of  Heaven 
When  earth  can  be  so  sweet? — If  only 

God 
Had  let  us  love, — and  show  the  world  the 

way! 


Strange  cancelings  must  ink  the  eternal 

books 
When    love-crossed-out    will    bring    the 

answer  right! 

That  first  sweet  pea!     I  wonder  where  it 

is. 

It  seems  to  me  I  laid  it  down  somewhere, 
And  yet, — I  am  not  sure.  I  am  not  sure, 
Even,  if  it  was  white  or  pink;  for  then 
Twas  much  like  any  other  flower  to  me, 
Save  that  it  was  the  first.  I  did  not 

know, 
Then,   that  it  was  the  last.     If   I   had 

known — 
But  then  it  does  not  matter.     Strange 

how  few, 
After  all's  said  and  done,  the  things  that 

are 
Of  moment. 

Few  indeed!     When  I  can  make 
Of  ten  small  words  a  rope  to  hang  the 

world! 
"I  had  you  and  I  have  you  now  no  more." 

87 


There,    there    it    dangles, — where's    the 

little  truth 
That  can  for  long   keep  footing   under 

that 
When   its   slack   syllables   tighten   to    a 

thought? 
Here,  let  me  write  it  down!     I  wish  to 

see 
Just  how  a  thing  like  that  will  look  on 

paper! 

"/  had  you  and  I  have  you  now  no  more" 

0,  little  words,   how  can  you  run  so 

straight 
Across  the  page,  beneath  the  weight  you 

bear? 
How  can  you  fall  apart,  whom  such  a 

theme 

Has  bound  together,   and  hereafter  aid 
In  trivial  expression  that  have  been 
So  hideously  dignified? — Would  God 
That  tearing  you  apart  would  tear  the 

thread 


I  strung  you  on!  Would  God — 0,  God, 
my  mind 

Stretches  asunder  on  this  merciless  rack 

Of  imagery!     0,  let  me  sleep  awhile! 

Would  I  could  sleep,  and  wake  to  find  me 
back 

In  that  sweet  summer  afternoon  with 
you. 

Summer?  Tis  summer  still  by  the  calen- 
dar! 

How  easily  could  God,  if  he  so  willed, 

Set  back  the  world  a  little  turn  or  two! 

Correct  its  griefs,  and  bring  its  joys 
again! 

We  were  so  wholly  one  I  had  not  thought 
That   we   could   die   apart.     I    had   not 

thought 
That  I  could  move, — and  you  be  stiff  and 

still! 
That  I  could  speak, — and  you  perforce 

be  dumb! 
I  think  our  heart-strings  were,  like  warp 

and  woof 
In  some  firm  fabric,  woven  in  and  out; 


Your  golden  filaments  in  fair  design 
Across  my  duller  fibre.     And  today 
The  shining  strip  is  rent;  the  exquisite 
Fine  pattern  is  destroyed;  part  of  your 

heart 
Aches  in  my  breast;  part  of  my  heart  lies 

chilled 
In  the  damp  earth  with  you.     I  have  been 

torn 
In  two,  and  suffer  for  the  rest  of  me. 

What  is  my  life  to  me?     And  what  am  I 
To  life, — a  ship  whose  star  has  guttered 

out? 

A  Fear  that  in  the  deep  night  starts  awake 
Perpetually,  to  find  its  senses  strained 
Against  the  taut  strings  of  the  quivering 

air, 
Awaiting  the  return  of  some  dread  chord? 

Dark,  Dark,  is  all  I  find  for  metaphor; 

All  else  were  contrast, — save  that  con- 
trast's wall 

Is  down,  and  all  opposed  things  flow  to- 
gether 

90 


Into  a  vast  monotony;  where  night 
And  day,  and  frost  and  thaw,  and  death 

and  life, 
Are  synonyms.     What  now — what  now 

to  me 
Are  all  the  jabbering  birds  and  foolish 

flowers 
That  clutter  up  the  world?     You  were 

my  song! 
Now,  now  let  discord  scream!     You  were 

my  flower! 
Now  let  the  world  grow  weeds!     For  I 

shall  not 

Plant  things  above  your  grave;  (the  com- 
mon balm 
Of    the    conventional    woe   for   its    own 

wound!) 

Amid  sensations  rendered  negative 
By  your  elimination  stands  to-day, 
Certain,  unmixed,  the  element  of  grief; 
I  sorrow;  and  I  shall  not  mock  my  truth 
With    travesties    of    suffering,    nor    seek 
To  effigy  its  incorporeal  bulk 
In  little  wry-faced  images  of  woe. 

I  cannot  call  you  back;  and  I  desire 
91 


No  utterance  of  my  material  voice. 

I  cannot  even  turn  my  face  this  way 

Or  that,  and  say,  "My  face  is  turned  to 
you;" 

I  know  not  where  you  are,  I  do  not  know 

If  Heaven  hold  you  or  if  earth  transmute, 

Body  and  soul,  you  into  earth  again; 

But  this  I  know: — not  for  one  second's 
space 

Shall   I  insult  my  sight  with  visionings 

Such  as  the  credulous  crowd  so  eager- 
eyed 

Beholds,  self-conjured,  in  the  empty  air. 

Let  the  world  wail!  Let  drip  its  easy 
tears! 

My  sorrow  shall  be  dumb! 

What  do  I  say? 

God!  God! — God  pity  me!  Am  I  gone  mad 

That  I  should  spit  upon  a  rosary? 

Am  I  become  so  shrunken?  Would  to 
God 

I  too  might  feel  that  frenzied  faith  whose 
touch 

Makes  temporal  the  most  enduring  grief; 

Tho*  it  must  walk  a  while,  as  is  its  wont, 

92 


With  wild  lamenting!  Would  I  too  might 
weep 

Where  weeps  the  world  and  hangs  its 
piteous  wreaths 

For  its  new  dead!  Not  Truth,  but  Faith, 
it  is 

That  keeps  the  world  alive.  If  all  at 
once 

Faith  were  to  slacken, — that  unconscious 
faith 

Which  must,  I  know,  yet  be  the  corner- 
stone 

Of  all  believing — ,  birds  now  flying  fearless 

Across  would  drop  in  terror  to  the  earth; 

Fishes  would  drown;  and  the  all-govern- 
ing reins 

Would  tangle  in  the  frantic  hands  of  God 

And  the  worlds  gallop  headlong  to  des- 
truction! 

0,  God  I  see  it  now,,  and  my  sick  brain 
Staggers  and  swoons!  How  often  over  me 
Flashes  this  breathlessness  of  sudden 

sight 
In  which  I  see  the  universe  unrolled 

93 


Before  me  like  a  scroll  and  read  thereon 
Chaos  and  Doom,  where  helpless  planets 

whirl 
Dizzily  round  and  round  and  round  and 

round, 

Like  tops  across  a  table,  gathering  speed 
With  every  spin,  to  waver  on  the  edge 
One  instant — looking  over — and  the  next 
To   shudder   and   lurch  forward   out  of 

sight — 


*   *  *  *  * 


Ah,  I  am  worn  out — I  am  wearied  out — 
It  is  too  much — I  am  but  flesh  and  blood, 
And  I  must  sleep.  Tho'  you  were  dead 

again, 
I  am  but  flesh  and  blood  and  I  must  sleep. 

Edna  St.  Vincent  Millay,  1917. 


94 


SWING  IN  THE  SWING 

Swing  in  the  swing  and  imagine, 
Swing  in  the  swing  and  suppose, 
'Magine  if  I  was  a  lady 
Havin'  a  train  to  my  clothes, 

I'd  never  stop  eating  candy, 

I'd  never  go  up  to  bed, 

And  when  they  talked  about  secrets 

I  wouldn't  be  sent  on  ahead. 

Swing  in  the  swing  and  imagine, 
Swing  in  the  swing  and  p'tend, 
Swing  in  the  swing   and   whoop-ti-oh- 
Jump  to  the  ground  in  the  end. 

y Man  Carney.  1915. 


95 


THE  APPRENTICE 

The  devil  take  these  foolish  meek  mad- 
onnas— 
Their   simpering   smiles!     Pray   look   at 

this  one  now 
There,  grinning  in  the  darkness,  on  her 

brow 

The  crown  of  heaven,  and  that  silly  face 
Such  as  the  people  like  to  see,  the  fools! 
Gemma  who  sells  the  flowers  on  the  bridge 
And  those  girls  washing  linen  in  the  pools 
Have  more  of  life,  of  beauty,  of  true  grace, 
Well  fit  to  be  God's  mother.  Andrea 
Knows  how  to  please  the  populace.  I 

hear 
Him  bargaining  "Mother  and  Child,  so 

much 
And  so  much  added  for  each  saint  " — he's 

dear — 
It's  just  like  selling  cloth.     Passion  of 

God! 
To  sell  your  soul  by  the  square  foot!  and 

yet 

96 


It  would  not  be  so  hard  could  I  forget 
That  damned  soft  smile  on  angel,  saint 

and  queen; 

If  I  could  bring  in  Gemma  for  an  hour 
And  sing  to  her  the  song  I  learned  last 

night, 
And  while  she  laughed  out  loud,  had  I 

the  power, 
I'd    paint    her    in,    large- mouthed,    and 

strong  and  keen 
If  not  as  Mary,  at  least,  Magdalene. 

Elizabeth  Jane  Coatstoor A,  1915. 


97 


CHANSON 

My  melody  at  first  was  slow  and  round: 
Then,   breaking  too  much  sweetness,   a 

great  chord 
Crashed  out,  swept  up,  and  all  its  color 

poured 

Into  a  slender,  dwindling,  minor  sound, 
That  rippled  into  froth.     Again  the  quiet 

roll 

Of  steady  notes  that  surged  into  a  crest 
Hung,  dropped,  and  melted  with  the  rest 
Into  an  end  that  sang  within  the  soul. 
I   laughed   aloud,   for   eagle-winged   and 

bright 
I'd  sent  you  flashing  through  my  mighty 

song. 
I  played  it  to  my  friends.     They  waited 

long, 
Then  called  it  "pretty"   ah!  the 

night 

That  chilled  me,  struck  my  senses  numb, 
And  made  my  song  of  you,forever — dumb. 

Katharine  Schermerhorn  Oliver,  1915. 
98 


THE  DRAGON  LAMP 

That  night  we   talked   across   a   table's 

space, 
And  with  a  tale  of  knight  and  nun   I 

sought 
To  please  you.     "These  pale  broideries," 

I  thought, 
"This  quaint,  sweet,  measured  story  will 

efface 

Her  restlessness."     Meanwhile  with  list- 
less grace 
Of  curving  wrist  and  cool  white  hand,  you 

wrought 
Havoc  amid  the  lamp's  red  fringe;  you 

caught 

The  sinuous  dragon  pattern  on  the  base, 
With  drooping  glance  retraced  it.     Once, 

forgetting 

My  silver  tale  a  breathless  instant,  letting 
Your    widening    eyes    sink    through    the 

morphean  maze 

99 


To  where  in  dim,  deep  bronze  your  own 

tense  gaze 
Answered,  you  shrank  back  from  the  glow 

afraid. 
"The  nun  can't  have  been  young,"  you 

softly  said. 

Louise  Hunting  Seaman,  1915. 


100 


LONDON   CHIMNEY  POTS 

London,  London  chimney  pots, 
In  the  twilight  sky, 
Rows  and  rows  of  chimney  pots 
To  mark  the  houses  by. 
Pleasant  London  chimney  pots 
Looking  down  at  me, 
Can  you  smell  the  jasmine 
By  my  apple  tree? 

Can  you  hear  the  children  sing 
T'other  side  my  hedge, 
Singing  to  the  baby  moon 
Showing  one  white  edge, 
"Hokey  pokey  starlight 
Round  the  moon  you  go" — 
London,  London  chimney  pots, 
Is't  a  song  you  know? 

Vivian  Carney.  1915. 


101 


MAN  MENDING  A  PIPE 

The  lowbrowed  tunnel  is  baking  black 
With  a  grimy  blackness  that  smears  his 

face, 

And  dries  his  nose  with  its  blasting  stench, 
And   pushes   his   eye-balls   out   of   their 

place; 

All  in  the  gulp  of  a  breath. 
He  drinks  it  down  till  this  dusty  death 
Is  the  native  life  of  his  dusty  lungs. 
The  thin  blood  pounds  in  his  crowded 

head, 
Or   the   hot   steam   batters   against   the 

bungs; 

It's  all  the  same  in  the  choking  dark. 
The  spot-light  cleaves  a  finger-mark 
And  wavers  against  the  retreating  night. 
The  steam  pipes  and  their  shadows  crawl, 
Little  and  big,  against  the  wall, 
From  the  roughcast  ceiling  spiders  fall, 
And  pale  bugs  scuttle  out  of  the  light. 
He  crouches  onward  a  weary  space, 
102 


Searches  and  finds  the  broken  pipe. 
His  hot  eyes  strain  on  the  tiny  crack, 
The  darkness  presses  against  his  back, 
Eternity  hangs  between  the  clack 
Of  one  steam-pipe  and  the  next. 

Low  and  dusty  and  close  and  flat, 
The  tunnel  stifles  him  in  its  gripe. 
He  shares  its  life  with  his  brother  the  rat — 
His  work  of  the  world  in  a  broken  pipe. 

Elizabeth  Mason  Heath,  1916. 


103 


LOVE  SONG 

There  are  some  things  too  wonderful  to 

tell; 

Sunset,  red-gold,  across  a  waveless  sea; 
'Twixt  pool  and  pool  a  glen-stream's 

revelry; 

The  morning  star's  pale  fire  and   breath- 
less spell; 

And  so  I  cannot  say  how  wonderful  you 
are. 

There  are  some  things  too  beautiful  to 

know; 
The  silver  song  the  shimmering  planets 

sing; 

What  the  tall  bending  birch  is  whisper- 
ing; 

How  sunlight  kisses  the  shy  buds  a-blow. 
So  I  can  only  guess  your  beauty  from 
afar! 

Carolyn  Crosby  Wilson,  1917. 


104 


CIRCE 

He  stood  before  her  tall  and  very  strong. 

The  swine  and  tigers  crouched  about  her 
feet 

And  licked  them. 

His  glance  upon  her  was  indifferent, 

Whereat  her  gray  eyes  blazed  with  sud- 
den joy, 

Eager  she  stretched  her  arms  out,  radiant, 

Her  mouth  grown  sweet  and  tender,  all 
her  form 

Trembling  with  hope.  Her  very  smile 
rejoiced, 

Then  quivered  at  his  kindled  look. 

E'er  he  had  reached  the  spot  where  yet 
she  stood 

Her  joy  had  smouldered  out. 

"Your  eyes  are  like  a  beast's,"  young 
Circe  said. 

Elizabeth  Jane  Coatsworlh,  1915. 


105 


THE  LOVER 

Ah  yes 

My  dearest, 

How  well  I  guess 

That  your  slim  soul 

Reaches  out  shyly 

Toward  that  same  goal 

Whence  mine  has  fled. 

I  panted  to  the  heights  and  found  that 

there 

Though  brave  my  aim,  my  soul 
Eternity  without  you  did  not  dare. 
Well,  we  are  here  together,  just  for  once. 
Your  eyes  brush  past  me  straining  to  the 

height, 

While  I  who  won  and  lost  because  of  you, 
Powerless  watch  you  pass. 
I  scorn  your  purity, 
Your  eager  zeal. 
I  long  to  feel 
Life  surge  about  me, 

106 


Not  forget, 

As  you  forget  me  here. 
You  are  a  holy  fool. 
And  yet  I  love  you. 


Elizabeth  Jane  Coats  worth,   1915. 
Katharine  Schermerhorn  Oliver,  1915. 


107 


REBELLION 

Always  when  Absalom  returned  at  night, 
Tired  from  hunting,  yet  adventure-filled, 
Twas  Michal  met  him  in  the  darkened 

court, 
Gave  him  his  wine  and  listened  to  his 

tales. 
Seldom  looked  she  at  him  from  lowered 

lids 
But  slow  spoke  words  of  praise  he  learned 

to  love. 
When  at  bright  noon  he  wandered  in  the 

groves 

Or  lay  in  meditation  'neath  a  tree 
Michal  would  chance  to  meet  him  as  she 

walked — 
Michal,  the  queen,  daughter  of  Saul  was 

she. 

David,  the  king,  never  beheld  her  face 
Since  she  rebuked   him;   yet  she  never 

wept 
For  that  she  lived  a  widow  while  a  wife — 

108 


She  never  spoke  of  those  her  five  young 
sons 

Whom  David  gave  to  death,  nor  of  her 
house 

Whose  very  name  was  seldom  on  men's 
lips 

So  it  had  fallen  before  David's  power — 

Instead, 

She  listened  to  the  tales  of  David's  son, 

Her  white  face  near  his  eager  beauteous- 
ness — 

Or  told  him  he  was  fair  that  he  was 
strong, 

The  people  loved  him  more  than  the 
King's  self, 

It  was  a  grief  to  her  he  was  not  heir. 

And  while  she  spoke  with  lips  that  scarce- 
ly moved, 

Her  eyes  kept  watch  of  him  'neath  lower- 
ed lids. 

Elizabeth  Jane  Coals  worth,  1915. 


109 


CATHLEEN  NI  HOULIHAN 

(In  imitation  of  the  poems  of  Egan  O'Rahilly) 

When  the  yellow  sun  set  on  the  hill 
And  the  mist  crept  up  from  the  meadow 
Did  you  see  the  Lady  Cathleen, 
As  you  came  from  the  west,  from  the 

moorland? 

It  was  close  by  the  wind-swept  dune, 
At  sunset  I  saw  her. 
Fair  is  she,  fair  among  maidens. 
The  red  of  her  hair  is  the  color 
Of  willows  when  comes  the  March  wind, 
Bringing  Spring  in  her  bosom. 
Her  eyes,  ah  who  can  describe  them 
Save  one  who  has  seen  in  the  dark  fairy 

well  of  Killaha 

Heaven  reflected,  a  flame  in  still  water? 
When  she  smiled  my  heart    sang  with 

delight; 
When  she  weeps — ah  then  I  die  for  her. 

Miriam  S.  Wright.  1918. 


110 


THE  DEFIANCE  OF  LILITH 

Swift  searched  they  the  universe,  track- 
ing down  Lilith — 

Sennoi,    Sansennoi    and    Sammargeloph, 

God-sent  and  terrible,  bright-winged  with 
fire 

Searched  they  for  Lilith  who  dared  defy 
Godhead, 

Utter  Shem-hamphorash,  Dread  Name 
of  Names, 

And,  armed  with  might  by  that  word  un- 
speakable 

Scorned  great  Jehovah,  cursed  Adam's 
seed — 

Adam  who  hated  her,  loved  her,  and 
fawned  to  her — 

Then  disappeared  from  the  eyes  of  the 
Lord. 

Fearing  her  power,  remembering  her 
beauty, 

The  strong  fierce  will  of  her,  turned  they 
from  Eden 

111 


Left    Adam    smiling,    Eve    close    beside 

him — 
Through  the  three  worlds  searched  they 

for  Lilith, 
Sennoi,    Sansennoi    and    Sammargeloph. 

Elizabeth  Jane  Coats  worth,  1915. 


112 


AUTUMN 

Spring,  teasing  cumbrous  Winter  from 
her  place, 

First  charms  me  with  her  ever  changing 
face, 

Now  with  a  tear,  yet  oftener  with  a  smile 

She  doth  beguile 

My  dancing  feet 

Into  some  pleasant,  blossom-bo wered  re- 
treat. 

And  yet,  when  lazy,  lavish  Summer  lies 

And  smiles  upon  me  through  her  half- 
closed  eyes, 

Smiles  welcome  to  her  wide,  reclining 
fields, 

Then  my  heart  yields 

To  her  sly  wooing, 

And  drowsy  minstrels  shrill  my  sweet 
undoing. 

Until,  one  day,  I  catch  the  sudden  flare 
Of  glorious  Autumn's  wind-blown,  flam- 
ing hair. 

113 


Her  swift  step  stirs  the  rustling  leaves, 

and  then 
I  meet  again 
The  wishful  glow 
Of  steady,  azure  eyes;  and  straightway 

go 
Into  glad  arms,  outstretched,  yet  wearied 

not 
With  long  desire,  and  only  half  forgot. 

Then  Spring  and  Summer  child  and  wan- 
ton are, 

And  Autumn  my  true  love  returned  from 
afar. 

Carolyn  Crosby  Wilson,  1917. 


114 


THE  DREAMER 

I  ride  on  the  riotous  clouds  of  dawn 

And  the  roughened  waves  of  the  sea. 

I  know  how  the  horns  of  the  moon  are 

made 

And  the  grey  crag's  mystery. 
Borne  aloft  by  the  whirlwind's  rage 
I  rush  through  eternity. 

Elsie  Lanier,  1918. 


115 


Puer  quis  ex  aula  capillis 
Ad  cyathum  statuztur  unctis, 
Doctus  sagittas  tendere  Sericas 
Arcu  paterno 

Horace  C.  I.  29. 

Sometimes  while  passing  round  the  fra- 
grant wine 
Fierce    memory    strikes.     Quivering,    he 

stands  erect, 

Longing  to  tear  aside  the  tunic  soft, 
Fling    on   instead    the    roughened    tiger 

skin, 

To  dash  the  marble  cup  upon  the  ground, 
And  free,  to  force  a  way  to  Seric  plains — 

But  stifling  breath  of  many-petalled  rose 
Envelops  him.  He  droops,  until  he  meets 
The  narrow  smile  of  some  dark  Latin 

girl, 
Onward  he  glides,   off'ring  with  servile 

grace 
Pomegranates,  grapes,  and  sweet  Faler- 

Agnes  Rogers,  1916. 
116 


PROLOGUE 

(From  the  Pageant  of  Athena.    Written  and  presented 

by  the  Students  of  Vassar  College  at  their  Fiftieth 

Anniversary  Exercises,  October,  1915.) 

Athena  speaks  ; 

Bright  in  the  skein  of  time  gleam  many 

strands, 

Endlessly  varied.  I  have  chosen  those 
Of  flame,  of  fire,  of  rich  luxuriant  gold, 
And  those  whose  beauty  lies  in  their  clear 

strength. 
My  will  it  is  to  weave  them,  strand  on 

strand, 
Tracing  the  course  of  learning  through 

the  years 
In  one  close  wrought  design.     All  those 

who  come 

Shall  pause  before  this  fabric,  ages  old, 
Shaped  by  past  lives  in  symmetry  and 

truth, 

117 


And  glorying  in  design  so  well  begun, 
Themselves  shall  add  thereto.     And  this 

my  web 
Shall  weaving  be  forever,  never  done. 


us 


ALTA  MATER 

What  gifts  ask  we  at  thy  fair  hands? 
Thy  love  what  grace  imparts? 
The  will  to  dare,  the  hand  to  do, 
Thy  light  within  our  hearts. 

High,  Mother,  is  thy  heart, 
As  thy  gray  tower's  height. 
Strong,  Mother,  are  thy  hands, 
Thy  torch  burns  ever  bright. 

What  gifts  lay  we  at  thy  fair  feet, 
Since  we  are  greatly  blest? 
Our  strength,  our  hope,  to  bear  thy  light 
Undimmed  from  east  to  west. 

High,  Mother,  is  thy  heart, 
As  thy  gray  tower's  height. 
Strong,  Mother,  are  thy  hands, 
Thy  torch  burns  ever  bright. 

Elizabeth  Mason  Heath,   1916. 


119 


DAWN 

At  the  feet  of  his  lady  the  moon 

Lies  the  night. 

Aquiver  and  breathless  and  bright, 
With  the  light 

Of  her  smile  on  his  face, 
And  the  shadows  her  slim  fingers  trace. 

And  now  she  is  gone,  and  he  lies 
Black  browed  and  brooding  and  still; 
And  over  the  hill 

From  afar 

The  clear  morning  star 
Burns  but  to  set  him  a- thrill. 
But  the  night  steals  away 
Seeking  his  lady,  and  leaves  the  star,  pal- 
ing, with  day. 

Carolyn  Crosby  Wilson,  1917. 


120 


THE  SANDMAN 

He  catches  dust  o'  dreams  to  carry  in  his 

sack, 
The  dust  a  falling  star  leaves  shining 

in  its  track, 
He  walks  the  milky-way,  then  down  the 

dark-staired  skies, 
His  tinkling  footsteps  hush  the  world 

with  lullabies. 
And  when  he  reaches  you,  his  fragrant 

gentle  hands 

Fill  deep  your  drowsy  eyes  with  fairy 
golden  sands. 

Helen  Johnson,  1918. 


121 


THE  FAIRY  RING 

The  fairies'  ring  is  up  in  the  night  sky 

Around  the  moon; 

And  little  moonbeams  silently  dance  by 

In  silver  shoon. 

The  star  lamps  glow, 

The  wind  sings  low 

A  lullaby, 

A  fairy  tune. 

But  all  the  woodland  people  sigh 

For  their  lost  happy  ring,  and  long  to  fly 

To  the  white  moon. 

Elizabeth  Keller,]9\6 


122 


ALONE 

Under  the  misty  sky,  low-hanging,  gray, 
The  hills  stretched,  dark  and  still  in  the 

half  light; 

The  wet  air,  scented  like  an  April  night 
With  marshy  sweetness,  on  our  parched 

lips  lay — 

Unbroken  silence  save  for  the  light  stir 
Of  dry,  dead  grass, 

And^once,  along  the  forest  edge,  the  whir 
Of  a  gray  partridge  startled  into  flight — 
I  felt  the  quiet  pass 
Like  balm  into  my  heart.     For  grief  that 

burned 
But  yesterday,  in  the  mad  land  of  human 

ills, 

Here  was  no  place. 
Instinctively  I  turned 
To  you — and  found  you  staring  at  the 

hills 
And  saw  the  fierce  world-hunger  in  your 

face. 

Charlotte  Van  de  Water.  1917. 
123 


ROAD  SONG 

"Seek,  seek,  but  not  to  find! 
Know  the  lonely  heart  of  the  wind, 
The  rim  of  the  hills  with  the  stars  behind, 
And  the  roads  of  all  the  world." 

The  wind  has  a  home  behind  the  moon, 
The  little  stars  sleep  in  the  glare  of  noon. 
I  walk  alone  and  my  heart  is  blind, 
On  the  roads  of  all  the  world. 

Elizabeth  Mason  Heath,  1916. 


124 


CONFIDANTE 

I,  who  walk  in  the  dark, 

Alone  beyond  all  knowing, 

Must  watch  to-night 

Glad,  sheltered  light 

In  strangers'  windows  glowing. 

Unto  me,  hungering 

With  unfulfilled  desires, 

The  keen  wind  brings 

Warm  scent  of  things 

That  brew  by  strangers'   fires. 

I  find  my  darkened  house, 
Silent  and  all  alone, 
And  my  sup  of  bread, 
That  is  dry  and  dead, 
And  no  candle  but  my  own. 

Carolyn  Crosby  Wilson,  1917, 


125 


THE  SUICIDE 

'Curse  thee,  Life,  I  will  live  with  thee  no 

more! 
Thou  hast  mocked  me,  starved  me,  beat 

my  body  sore! 
And  all  for  a  pledge  that  was  not  pledged 

by  me 
I  have  kissed  thy  crust  and  eaten  sparing- 

ly 

That  I  might  eat  again,  and  met  thy 
sneers 

With  deprecations,  and  thy  blows  with 
tears, — 

Aye,  from  thy  glutted  lash,  glad,  crawl- 
ed away, 

As  if  spent  passion  were  a  holiday! 

And  now  I  go.  Nor  threat,  nor  easy 
vow 

Of  tardy  kindness  can  avail  thee  now 

With  me,  whence  fear  and  faith  alike 
are  flown; 

Lonely  I  came,  and  I  depart  alone, 

126 


And  know  not  where  nor  unto  whom  I 

go; 
But  that  thou  canst  not  follow  me  I 

know." 

Thus  I  to  Life,  and  ceased;  but  through 

my  brain 
My  thought  ran  still,  until  I  spake  again: 

'Ah,  but  I  go  not  as  I  came, — no  trace 
Is  mine  to  bear  away  of  that  old  grace 
I  brought!  I  have  been  heated  in  thy 

fires, 
Bent  by  thy  hands,  fashioned  to  thy 

desires, 

Thy  mark  is  on  me!  I  am  not  the  same 
Nor  ever  more  shall  be,  as  when  I  came. 

Ashes  am  I  of  all  that  once  I  seemed. 
In  me  all's  sunk  that  leapt,  and  all  that 

dreamed 

Is  wakeful  for  alarm, — oh,  shame  to  thee, 
For  the  ill  change  that  thou  hast  wrought 

in  me, 
Who  laugh  no  more  nor  lift  my  throat 

to  sing! 

127 


Ah,  Life,  I  would  have  been  a  happy 
Pithing 
To  have  about  the  house  when  I  was 

grown 

If  thou  hadst  left  my  little  joys  alone! 
I  asked  of  thee  no  favor,  save  this  one; 
That  thou  wouldst  leave  me  playing  in 

the  sun! 
And  this  thou  didst  deny,  calling  my 

name 

Insistently,  until  I  rose  and  came. 
I  saw  the  sun  no  more.  *  *  *  *It  were 

not  well 
So  long  on  these  unpleasant  thoughts 

to  dwell, 

Need  I  arise  tomorrow  and  renew 
Again  my  hated  tasks,  but  I  am  through 
With  all  things  save  my  thoughts  and 

this  one  night, 

So  that  in  truth  I  seem  already  quite 
Free  and  remote  from  thee, — I  feel  no 

haste 

And  no  reluctance  to  depart;  I  taste, 
Merely,  with  thoughtful  mien,  an  un- 
known draught, 

128 


That  in  a  little  while  I  shall  have  quaff- 

i  " 
ed. 

Thus  I  to  Life,  and  ceased,  and  slightly 

smiled, 
Looking  at  nothing!  and  my  thin  dreams 

filed 

Before  me  one  by  one  till  once  again 
I  set  new  words  unto  an  old  refrain: 

"Treasures   thou  hast   that  never   have 

been  mine! 
Warm  lights  in  many  a  secret  chamber 

shine 
Of  thy  gaunt  house,  and  gusts  of  song 

have  blown 

Like  blossoms  out  to  me  that  sat  alone! 
And  I  have  waited  well  for  thee  to  show 
If  any  share  were  mine, — and  now  I  go! 
Nothing  I  leave,  and  if  I  naught  attain 
I  shall  but  come  into  mine  own  again!" 

Thus  I  to  Life,  and  ceased,  and   spake 

no  more, 

But,  turning,  straightway  sought  a  cer- 
tain door 

In  the  rear  wall.     Heavy  it  was,  and  low 
129 


And  dark, — a  way  by  which  none  e'er 

would  go 

That  other  exit  had,  and  never  knock 
Was  heard  thereat, — bearing  a  curious 

lock 
Some  chance  had  shown  me  fashioned 

fcultily, 
Whereof  Life  held,  content,  the  useless 

key, 
And  great  coarse  hinges,  thick  and  rough 

with  rust, 
Whose   sudden   voice   across    a   silence 

must, 

I  knew,  be  harsh  and  horrible  to  hear, — 
A  strange  door,   ugly  like  a   dwarf. 

So  near 

I  came  I  felt  upon  my  feet  the  chill 
Of  a  dread  wind  creeping  across  the  sill. 
So  stood  longtime,  till  over  me  at  last 
Came  weariness,   and  all  things   other ' 

passed 
To  make  it  room;  the  still  night  drifted 

deep 
Like  snow  about  me,  and  I  longed  for 

sleep. 

130 


But    suddenly,    marking    the    morning 

hour, 
Bayed    the    deep-throated    bell    within 

the  tower! 
Startled,  I  raised  my  head, — and  with 

a  shout 
Laid   hold   upon   the   latch, — and    was 

without. 


Ah,     long-forgotten,     well-remembered 

road, 

Leading  me  back  unto  my  old  abode, 
My  father's  house!  There  in  the  night 

I  came, 
And  found  them  feasting,  and  all  things 

the  same 
As  they  had  been  before.     A  splendor 

hung 
Upon  the  walls,  and  such  sweet  songs 

were  sung 

As,  echoing  out  of  very  long  ago, 
Had  called  me  from  the  house  of  Life, 

I  know. 
So  fair  their  raiment  shone  I  looked  in 

shame 

131 


On  the  unlovely  garb  in  which  I  came! 
Then  straightway  at  my  hesitancy  mock- 
ed: 
"It  is  my  father's  house!"   I  said,  and 

knocked; 
And  the  door  opened.     To  the  shining 

crowd, 

Tattered  and  dark  I  entered,  like  a  cloud, 
Seeing  no  face  but  his;  to  him  I  crept, 
And  "Father!"  I  cried,  and  clasped  his 
knees,  and  wept. 

Ah,  days  of  joy  that  followed!    All  alone 

I  wandered  through  the  house.  My 
own,  my  own, 

My  own  to  touch,  my  own  to  taste  and 
smell, 

All  I  had  lacked  so  long  and  loved  so 
well! 

None  shook  me  out  of  sleep,  none  hush- 
ed my  song, 

None  called  me  in  from  the  sunlight  all 
day  long. 

I  know  not  when  the  wonder  came  to  me 

Of  what  my  father's  business  might  be, 

132 


And  whither  fared  and  on  what  errands 

bent 
The   tall   and   gracious   messengers   he 

sent. 
Yet  one  day  with  no  song  from  dawn  till 

night 
Wondering  I  sat  and  watched  them  out 

of  sight. 
And  the  next  day  I  called;  and  on  the 

third 
Asked  them  if  I  might  go, — but  no  one 

heard. 

Then,  sick  with  longing,  I  arose  at  last 
And  went  unto  my  father, — in  that  vast 
Chamber  wherein  he  for  so  many  years 
Has  sat,  surrounded  by  his  charts  and 

spheres. 

'Father,"  I  said,  "Father,  I  cannot  play 
The  harp  that  thou  didst  give  me;  and 

all  day 

I  sit  in  idleness,  while  to  and  fro 
About  me  thy  serene,  grave  servants  go; 
And  I  am  weary  of  my  lonely  ease. 
Better  a  perilous  journey  overseas 

133 


Away  from  thee,  than  this,  the  life  I 

lead, 

To  sit  all  day  in  the  sunshine  like  a  weed 
That    grows   to    naught, — I    love   thee 

more  than  they 
Who  serve  thee  most;  yet  serve  thee  in 

no  way. 

Father,  I  beg  of  thee  a  little  task 
To  dignify  my  days, — 'tis  all  I  ask 
Forever,  but  forever,  this  denied, 
I  perish." 

"Child,*'  my  father's  voice  replied, 
"All  things  thy  fancy  hath  desired  of  me 
Thou  hast  received.     I  have  prepared 

for  thee 
Within  my  house  a  spacious  chamber, 

where 
Are  delicate  things  to  handle  and  to 

wear, 
And  all  these  things  are  thine.     Dost 

thou  love  song? 
My  minstrels  shall  attend  thee  all  day 

long. 

Or   sigh   for  flowers?     My   fairest   gar- 
dens stand 

134 


Open  as  fields  to  thee  on  every  hand. 
And  all  thy  days  this  word  shall  hold 

the  same: 
No  pleasure  shalt  thou  lack  that  thou 

shalt  name. 
But  as  for  tasks" — he  smiled,  and  shook 

his  head: 
Thou  hadst  thy  task,  and  laidst  it  by," 

he  said. 

Edna  St.  Vincent  Millay,  1917. 


135 


AN  ETCHING 

A  grey  ship  sails  into  a  misty  sky. 
Grey  sea  gulls  tipped  with  white  go  circl- 
ing by. 

Oh,  ship!  so  like  my  life  you  seem  to  me, 
Grey  life  against  a  grey  eternity. 
Oh,  sea  gulls!  like  the  years  you  circling 

fly, 

Grey  years  white  tipped  with  dreams 
that  soar  so  high. 

Oh,  ship,  that  you  might  rest  against  the 
sky 

While  sea  gulls  tipped  with  white  go  circl- 
ing by! 

Elsie  Lanier,  1918. 


136 


ATTAINMENT 

To  reach  the  top  you  strove; 

You  only  saw  brown  earth  that  backward 

swept 

Beneath  your  feet; 
Above — beyond — the   slim   path   dodged 

and  leapt, 

Than  you  a  thousand  times  more  fleet, 
To  lose  itself  in  yon  high-clinging  grove. 

High  up,  a  mountain  spring 

Tossed  its  clear  crystal  freely  down  to  you, 

With  silken  shiver, 

Shattered  on  every  jagged  rock  anew, 

You  only  said,  "Ah,  here's  a  river; 

I'll  quench  my  thirst;  'twill  aid  my  labor- 

»» 
mg. 

A  free  wind  from  the  crown 
Of  other  distant  hills  swept  by  and  stir- 
red 
The  waiting  trees; 

137 


With  pleasant  quivers  of  surprise  they 

heard 
That  you  were  near;  you  said,  'The 

breeze 
Is  good  for  climbing.  Hope  it  won't  die 

down." 

Why,  when  the  day  was  cool 

On  some  poised  cliff  could  you  not  pause, 

and  there 
With  grateful  eye 

Scan  the  walled  reaches  of  the  valley  fair; 
Or  see  unfathomable  sky 
Gaze  back  from  an  unf athomed  mountain 

pool? 

Thought  you  through  pressing  clouds  the 

open  sky  to  gain? 
Drenched  is  the  summit  with  close  mists 

and  sleet-sharp  rain! 

Carolyn  Crosby  Wibon.  1917. 


138 


WIND  RHYTHM 

The  moonlight  glimmers  in  a  pale  green 
film  on  the  frozen  creek  and  the  snow- 
covered  hill  beyond.  Along  the  creek 
stand  slender  trees,  their  bare  branches 
dark  against  the  thinly-clouded,  violet 
sky.  Fine  black  twigs  quiver  across  the 
mist-blurred  moon.  The  wind  rises  in 
the  heavy  firs  that  droop  their  branches 
on  the  hill; 

"Sound  and  swell, 
Sound  and  swell, 
Rocking  slow,  rocking  slow." 
It  reaches  the  slender  trees; 
"Swirl  and  sway, 
Swirl  and  sway, 
Bending  low,  bending  low." 
Now  the  little  twigs  are  caught  by  the 
wind; 

"Falter  and  fling, 
Falter  and  fling, 
Wildly  blow,  wildly  blow." 

Elizabeth  Mary  Hinch.  1917. 
139 


UNSEEN 

In  the  blind  darkness  of  unlit  rooms 

I  was  groping, 

My    curious    finger-tips    seeking    elusive 

things. 

When  a  touch  like  the  breath  of  a  violet 
Brushed  me — and  was  gone. 

The  myst'ry  of  delicate  moth-wings  held 

me 

In  thrall. 
Hope  whispered  to  me  of  the  open  path 

to  the  dream-world, 
Of  wee  sylphs  in  petal-soft  dress. 
I  waited — 

Then  tenderly  sought 
In  the  silence,  scarce  breathing  my  prayer 
For  that  dream-caress. 

Once  more  it  trembled  near  me — 
140 


The  spell  of  all  enchanted  things  was  just 

beyond  my  finger-tips. 
Softly  I  crushed  it  to  hold  forever 
— A  narcissus,  frail-petalled  and  dead. 

Bee  W.  Hosier,  1917. 


141 


MID-WINTER 

If  I  were  God,  I'd  mould  hills  rolling  low, 
Smooth  them  and  shape  them,  sift  them 

deep  with  snow, 
And  scatter  them  with  furze  that  they 

might  lie 

Softly  against  the  wide,  deep-tinted  sky. 
In  slow  caress  my  forming  hand  would 

linger, 

Then  a  swift  finger, 
Down   some   long   slope,   half   carelessly 

would  break 
A  jagged   course  for   melting   snows   to 

take. 
The  out-scooped  valley's  length  they'd 

run  and  then' 

Skirting  new  hills,  go  slipping  out  of  ken. 
And  distanced  far,  a  low-hung  sun  I'd 

light, 

And   paint   blue   shadows   on   the  rose- 
touched  white 

142 


Then,  wearied,  put  aside  my  colors  and 

my  clay, 
And  fashion  paradise  and  man  on  some 

less  perfect  day. 

Carolyn  Crosby  Wilson,  1917. 


143 


AT  RANDOM 

(A  Department  of  Nonsense) 


DRESS  A  LA  CARTE 

'Tis  Friday  night,  but  customs  change, 
How  college  doth  progress! 
And  so  though  pie  is  on  the  plate 
I  wear  my  ice  cream  dress! 


147 


NOTHING  AT  ALL 

She  was  a  tall  and  goodly  Senior, 
I  was  an  innocent  Freshman  small, 

I  met  her  one  night  in  the  Ethics  alcove, 
That  was  all. 

She  was  a  spectacled  Greek  professor, 
I  was  an  innocent  freshman  small, 
I  asked  in  the  hall,  "Do  you  do  our  sweep- 

•v»» 

mg? 
That  was  all. 

He  was  a  gas-man,  pleasantly  smiling, 
I  was  an  innocent  freshman  small, 

I  only  asked  him  to  change  my  schedule, 
That  was  all. 

It  was  a  beautiful  senior  parlor, 
I  was  an  innocent  freshman  small, 

It  looked  so  nice  I  stepped  inside  it, 
That  was  all. 

148 


Then  why  do  they  laugh  and  point  the 

finger 

At  me,  an  innocent  freshman  small? 
I'm  only  asking  for  information, 
That  is  all. 

F.LMcK.,  1898. 


H9 


LAMENT 

The  Vassar  student  well  displays 

Her  slothful  disposition 
She  twines   about  the  classroom  chairs 

In  serpentine  position. 

In  Sunday  Evening  Music,  too, 
She  finds  it  much  more  pleasing 

To  lie  recumbent  on  the  seat, 
Her  weary  soul  thus  easing. 

In  such  wild  ways  she  will  persist, 

It  tears  my  soul  asunder; 
Do  you  suppose  she  thinks  it's  nice* 

I  wonder,  oh,  I  wonder  — 

K.  T.,  1910. 


150 


IRONY 

I  thought  that  it  was  fit 
For  me  to  study  up  a  bit 

On  the  EC.  conditions  of  the  working 

class; 

But  just  lately  I  have  learned 
That  my  study  must  be  turned 

To  an  EC.  condition  of  my  own,  alas! 


151 


THE  LEADING  MAN 

"Oh  isn't  the  leading  man  good? 

Her  voice — "  "And  his  gestures,  my  dear. 

He  is  more  like  herself  when  he  smiles, 

But  doesn't  her  moustache  look  queer?" 
"He  is  only  pretending  to  smoke; 
Those  puffs — "  "Come  from  her  powder- 
can. 

And  when  she  makes  love  to  the  girl," 
"She  is  the  most  wonderful  man!" 

I.  U..  1910. 


152 


MY  SOUL 

My  soul  is  like  an  alley  cat 
Long,  mangy,  lank  and  thin; 
It  never  feeds  on  porterhouse 
But  from  the  garbage  tin. 

0  Thou,  who  feedest  hungry  souls 
And  seek'st  to  make  them  fat, 

1  pray  that  Thou  mayst  make  my  soul 
A  house — not  alley-cat. 

Then  may  it,  sleeping,  purr  alway, 
Calm  in  its  sleek  rotundity, 
A  boul'vard  soul,  and  boul'vard  fed, 
A  perfect  soul,  the  soul  of  me! 

R.  P.  L,  1913. 


153 


SONNET  TO  A  HAIRPIN 

Implement  of  beauty  and  of  use! 

Female  Adorner!  At  such  waste  I  frown- 
ed 

When  first  I  saw  thee  broken  on  the 
ground, 

Dropped  by  some  "libe"  ward  maid; 
with  tresses  loose 

Onward  she  fled  and  murmured  low,  "The 
Deuce". 

In  thousands  since,  the  pretty  shell  I've 
found, 

In  millions,  meeker  ones  in  wire  gowned, 

Oh  stay  of  locks!  How  great  is  thy  abuse! 

Yet  some  who  shed  thee  most  have  learned 

in  "Ec." 
(Or  other  class)   that  use  is  one  great 

force 
And  beauty  t'other,  to  keep  life's  craft 

afloat. 

154 


These  lost  and  gone,  the  ship  is  like  to 

leak. 
But  careless,  thee  they  drop  along  their 

course, 
Knowing  thy  gifts.     And  yet  they  wish 

the  vote! 

M.  M.,  1915. 


155 


A  PSYCHOLOGICAL  DISILLUSION 

They  said  it  was  a  "cinchy",  three  lectures 

a  week 

And  nothing  she'd  tell  you  was  new— 
The  quizzes  were  easy,  and  in  the  half- 
year 
There  were  only  three  topics  to  do. 

So  I  signed  for  the  stuff  with  a  smile  on 

my  face, 

In  college  such  joy  rides  are  few. 
And  the  first  weeks  slipped  by,  while  I 

worked  not  at  all 

I  had  only  three  topics  to  do. 

Then  came  round  a  week-end  I  meant  to 

begin, 

But  I  found  I'd  a  theme  overdue, 
A  tea  and  a  lecture;  my  worry  was  small 
With  only  three  topics  to  do. 

A  trip  to  New  York,  a  Hall  Play,  a  guest, 
My  conscience  began  to  pursue 
156 


And  poison  my  mind  with  the  ghost  of  the 

thought 
There  were  still  those  three  topics  to  do. 

Though  I've  worked  like  a  Trojan  to  find 

some  spare  time, 

In  a  week  the  semester  is  through — 
And  with  all  my  reviewing  and  several 

long  themes 
I've  still  those  three  topics  to  do. 

H.E.B.,  1917. 


15/ 


THE  BALLAD  OF  BAD  'BACCY 

Where  Market  and  the  Main  Street  meet 
In  U.  C.  S.  shop  quite  replete 

With  every  sort  of  smoky  treat, 
I'm  working. 

One  day  there  came  a  maiden  sweet 

On  neat  and  hesitating  feet, 

And  her  remarks  I  now  repeat 
Sans  shirking. 

"I  want"  said  she,  "kind  sir,  to  get 

A  mild  but  mellow  cigarette 

That's  pleasant  for  to  smell,  and  yet 

Has  pep." 

Whereat  I  did  proceed  to  slip 
Her  scented  things  with  golden  tip 
And  winked,  as  who  would  say,  quite  flip, 

"  T '  1  " 

1  m  hep. 

Her  look  would  make  your  heart  to  bleed, 
"I  do  not  smoke  the  filthy  weed," 
Said  she,  "I  will  explain  my  need 
Of  nicotine. 

158 


For  in  my  dormitory  cellar 
There  lives  and  smokes  a  wretched  fellar, 
A  silent  subterranean  dweller, 
Who's  never  seen. 

"And  through  my  register  a  fume 

Each   morning   floods   my    sitting-room, 

And  wraps  me  close  in  smoke  and  gloom 

All  day. 

And  if  from  morn  till  eve  I  choke, 
And  folks  all  think  'tis  I  who  smoke 
I'm  going  to  choose  the  brand — or  croak, 

I  say!" 

Said  I,  "Fatimas  or  Pell  Mell 
Are  famous  for  their  pleasant  smell 
But  I've  a  plan  that  works  as  well — 

Retire  him! 

Go  to  the  folks  the  help  that  hire, 
And  with  this  motto  raise  their  ire, 
'There  is  no  smoke  without  a  fire — 

So  fire  him!'" 

C.  C.  W.t  1917. 


159 


PISCIS  VASSARIAE 

Entering  the  dining  room  in  doubt, 

And  gazing  hopefully  about, 

On  every  hand  I  hear  a  shout, 

"I  pass!"  'By  me!"  and  "One  without!" 

Seeking  my  place  I  quickly  feel 

A  touch  upon  my  arm.     I  wheel. 

A  stranger  queries  at  my  heel 

"Do  they  play  bridge  at  every  meal?" 

A  gentle  guest — I  would  not  sass   her — 
For  I  was  once  as  simple  as  her, 
And  so,  I  murmur  as  I  pass  her — 
"It  is  the  day  for  fish  at  Vassar." 

C  C.  W..  1917. 


160 


FLUNCTURE 

Once  'twas  an  oyster  gaunt  and  pallid 

Enmeshed  in  coils  of  macaroni; 

And  once  it  was  a  salmon  sallid; 

And  once  'twas  fish  both  strong  and  boni. 

And  once  the  heat  came  on  at  noon; 
And  once  it  never  came  at  all; 
And  once  it  waned,  as  wanes  the  moon, 
When  Fahrenheit  began  to  fall. 

And  once  I  flunked  me  flat  in  Ethics; 
And  once  I  flunked  in  Mathematics. 

Who  was  it  flunked  in  Dietetics? 
Who   was   it   flunked   in   Thermostatics? 

C.  c  W.,  1917. 


161 


THE    OLD    ORDER    CHANGETH 

The  first  bell  rang  at  dawn  of  day; 
The  air  was  chill,  the  sky  was  grey; 

I  would  have  slept. 
The  bed  was  cozy  where  I  lay, 
And   my   first  class   three   hours   away; 

Yet  up  I  leapt. 

Into  my  roomy's  room  I  sped 

And  slammed  the  window  by  her  bed; 

In  accents  gay 

"Get  up,  it's  pancake  day,"  I  said. 
She  pulled  the  covers  round  her  head — 

"We  had  them  yesterday!" 

C.  C.  W..  1917. 


162 


WHY  DID  I  EVER  COME  TO 
THIS  PLACE? 

(An  expedition  in  untrammelled  verse) 

Sometimes 

When  the  eight  o'clock  bell  rings, 

And  the  maids, 

In  a  long,  black,  frantic  line, 

Scurry  from  the  dining-room 

Like  rats 

From  a  doomed  ship, 

(Nor  will  any  of  them  catch  my  eye 

Though  I  have  been  waiting 

As  patient  as  a  farmer's  wife 

Since  dawn) 

I  say  to  myself, 

Or  to  any  who  cares  to  listen, 

That  college  is  a  bore, 

And  that  woman's  place 

Is  in  the  home. 

And  again, 

When  the  chapel  chimes, 
163 


Forgetting  that  it  is  TOWN  SUNDAY, 

(Or  uninformed) 

Ding, 

That  is  to  say,  "peal", 

For  quite  some  time, 

As  blithe, 

And  inexorable, 

And  out  of  tune, 

As  anybody  else  in  a  bath-tub, 

(Or  as  foolishly  complacent 

As  a  football  player 

Who  runs  in  the  wrong  direction 

And  scores  a  goal 

For  the  other  side) 

I  turn  in  bed, 

And  glare  at  the  plaster,  which  is  scarred 

By  generations  of  thumb-tacks, 

For  whose  insertion  I, 

As  guiltless 

As  is  a  Freshman  of  knowledge, 

Do  semi-annually 

Settle, 

And  I  say  to  myself, 

Or  to  the  servant  who  comes  in  just  then 

To  empty  the  waste-basket, 

164 


That  college 
Is  the  misapprehension 
Of  a  June-bug  mind, 
And  that  woman's  place 
Is  in  the  home. 

And  always 

When  with  some  youth, 

Whom  I  do  not  love, 

But  might, 

In  the  proper  environment, 

I  have  trudged  for  hours, 

Pointing  out  the  Library 

And  the  Art  Building, 

Over  and  over, 

(For  the  parlors 

Are  full  of  parents, 

And  five  room-mates 

Are  an  insufficient  chaperone) 

Always 

I  say  to  myself, 

Or  to  the  night-watchman, 

Who  does  not  care, 

That  I  wish  I  were  happily  married 

To  a  dyspeptic  widower 

165 


With  six  small  children, 

And  that  higher  education  for  women 

Is  as  paradoxical  a  quantity 

As  prohibition  at  election  time, 

And  that  woman's  place 

Is  in  the  home. 

E.  St.  V.  M.,  1917. 


166 


PARTIALITY 

I  don't  care  much  for  water  snakes  and 
wiry  centipedes, 

It  seems  to  be  a  footless  life  the  solemn 
fishworm  leads, 

In  fact,  the  crawling  creatures  that  appeal 
to  me  are  few — 

But  I  love  the  gentle  Caterpillar,  snuggl- 
ing in  my  shoe. 

The  reason  for  this  preference  is  very 
plainly  shown, 

'Tis  not  for  outside  beauty,  and  his  soul 
is  little  known, 

Still  I  love  the  Caterpillar — 'tis  love  re- 
turned, you  see, 

Because  the  gentle  creature  is  so  very 
fond  of  me. 

For  he  scrambles  up  the  instep  of  my  foot, 

or  in  my  hair, 
And  if  he  wants  to  take  a  snooze,    t's 

always  in  my  chair, 
167 


So  I  love  the  gentle  Caterpillar  dearly  as 

can  be — 
Were  there  but  one  in  all  the  land,  he'd 

surely  crawl  on  me. 

M.  A.  P.,  1905. 


168 


HUMANITY 

Tread  lightly  on  the  humble  bug, 

Step  gently  on  the  worm, 
And  dry  their  tears  and  calm  their  fears 

And  soothe  them  when  they  squirm. 

L.  B.,  1907. 


HUMILITY 

But  should  a  big  bug  cross  your  path, 
Give  place,  with  lowered  eye. 

Let  not  a  word  from  you  be  heard 
Till  it  has  passed  you  by. 

£.  B.  D..  1909. 


169 


BUG  OF  JUNE 

0  bug  of  June  that  comest  still 

When  blossomed  verdure  clothes  the  hill, 

To  thee  my  warblings  I  indite, 

Proud  monarch  of  the  sultry  night. 

The  campus  glowing  in  the  noon 
Is  not  thy  province,  bug  of  June. 
Thou  wait'st  till  in  the  dying  day 
Allures  thee  forth  the  droplight's  ray. 

Thou  buzzest  in  my  private  cup, 
My  honey  gives  thee  royal  sup, 
Three  room-mates  lying  in  a  swoon, 
Proclaim  thy  power,  bug  of  June! 

Strong  enough  my  filial  loyalty 
To  Alma  Mater,  yet  for  me 
The  end  cannot  arrive  too  soon — 
With  freedom  from  thee,  bug  of  June! 

y.L.  B.t  1911. 


170 


A  VALENTINE 

If  I  were  but  a  lovely  worm 

Which  had  a  graceful,  wiggly  tail, 

My  prepossessing,  pretty  squirm, 

To  win  your  heart  would  never  fail. 

I'd  tie  myself  in  knots  for  you, 

Or  coyly  wrinkle  up  my  skin, 

Or  stretch  myself  a  foot  or  two 

As  straight  and  slender  as  a  pin. 

I'd  let  you  bait  your  hook  with  me 

And  gladly  toss  myself  about 

'Til  all  the  fishes  in  the  sea 

Thought  me  the  worm  of  worms,  no  doubt. 

But,  if  you  held  me  in  your  hand, 

Still  as  the  great  stone  sphinx   I'd  lie, 

Nor  any  greater  joy  demand 

Before  I  curled  me  up  to  die. 

M.  H.t  1912. 


171 


THE  CENTIPEDE 

Of  all  the  terrors  of  the  night  that  make 

one's  flesh  to  crawl 
The  worst  it  is  the  centipede  that  walketh 

on  the  wall. 
Of  all  the  dangers  of  the  day  that  chill  one 

to  the  core 
The  worst  it  is  the  centipede  that  fleeth 

o'er  floor. 
Of  all  the  horrors  of  dawn  and  dusk  that 

wring  one  on  the  rack 
The  worst  it  is  the  centipede  that  crawleth 

from  the  crack. 

One  finds  him  in  one's  teacup,  in  one's 

bathtub,  and  one's  bed, 
And  he  drops  quick  from  the  ceiling  on 

one's  unsuspecting  head, 
And  his  wiggly  legs  still  wiggle  after  one 

has  squashed  him  dead. 
He  leaves  a  gooey  brownish  stain  upon 

one's  smooth  cream  wall 
When  his  crawly  self  is  blotted  out  and 

nevermore  will  crawl; 
172 


Ah,  yes,  alive  or  dead  he  is  of  known  beasts 

worst  of  all! 
Sometimes   when   I   am   working  in  my 

chamber  late  at  night 
And  look  up  at  my  wall  with  murders 

spotted,  by  dim  light 
Each  deathplace  seems  to  move  and  crawl 

— it  is  a  ghastly  sight. 
And  far  up  near  the  ceiling  where  the  gay 

mosquito  hies 
Faint  moving  dots  reveal  themselves  as 

spiders,  moths,  and  flies, 
How  deep  I  love  their  so  few  legs  for  this 

so  sweet  surprise. 

Perhaps  the  cause  of  centipedes  in  the 

great  scheme  of  nature 
Is  just  to  teach  us  heartfelt  joy  for  every 

other  creature. 
For  of  all  the  beasts  in  all  the  world  that 

craze  one's  soul  with  fear 
The  worst  is  sure  the  centipede  that  is 

my  roommate  here. 

E.  K.,  1916 


173 


SPRING  SONG 

Worms!  How  I  hate  them  writhing  in  the 

rain 

On  all  the  paths  from  Josselyn  to  Main! 
And  how  I  hate  the  slimy  way  they  feel, 
Cringing  and  crushed  beneath  a  rubber 

heel! 
And  how  I  hate  the  bloated  way  they 

squirm — 
See!  There  are  twins  and  there  is  half  a 

worm! 

C  C  W.t  1917. 


174 


THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  SANTA  CRUZ 


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